Cooke, John Esten, 1830-1886 [1855], Ellie, or, The human comedy. With illustrations after designs by Strother. (A. Morris, Richmond) [word count] [eaf506T].
To look up a word in a dictionary, select the word with your mouse and press 'd' on your keyboard.
Front matter
Covers, Edges and Spine
-- --
[figure description] Top Edge.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Front Cover.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Spine.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Front Edge.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Back Cover.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Bottom Edge.[end figure description]
Preliminaries
-- --
University of Virginia, 1819
Mrs. William M. Forrest
[figure description] 506EAF. Paste-Down Endpaper with Bookplate: generic University
of Virginia library bookplate for gift texts. The bookplate includes
the unofficial version of the University seal, which was drawn in 1916,
with the donor's name typed in. The seal depicts the Roman goddess of
wisdom, Minerva, in the foreground with the Rotunda and East Lawn
filling the space behind her. On the left side of the image, an olive
branch appears in the upper foreground. The bookplate has an off-white
background with the seal printed in dark blue ink.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Free Endpaper.[end figure description]
Betty B. Pendleton.
Cuckoo,
Va.
-- --
[figure description] Free Endpaper with Illustration.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Illustration page.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Title-Page.[end figure description]
Title Page
ELLIE:
OR,
THE HUMAN COMEDY.
By John Esten Cooke.
AUTHOR OF “THE VIRGINIA COMEDIANS,” “LEATHER STOCKING AND SILK,”
“THE YOUTH OF JEFFERSON,” “PEONY,” etc.
“Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers,
Whose loves in higher love endure;
What souls possess themselves so pure,
Or is there happiness like theirs!”
TENNYSON
With Illustrations after Designs by Strother.
RICHMOND:
Published by A. Morris.
1855.
-- --
[figure description] Copyright Page.[end figure description]
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1855,
BY A. MORRIS,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the
United States, for the Eastern District of Virginia.
-- 003 --
INTRODUCTORY.
[figure description] Page 003.[end figure description]
Perhaps a few words upon the threshold of this book
will be of advantage to the reader, the author, and the
story itself. The peculiar character of the volume, indeed,
almost calls for this explanatory introduction,
dealing, as it does, in the fortunes of many personages,
drawn with the utmost freedom, and made to play their
imaginary parts upon a domestic theatre, with which
many of its readers—if it have such—are so perfectly
familiar. The author wishes, then, to say upon the
threshold, and with entire sincerity, that no character in
this volume is intended to satirize any real personage,
living or dead. He would be sorry to think that any one
could believe him capable of anything so unamiable and
unjustifiable—and, perhaps, this disclaimer is wholly
unnecessary. It will not be attributed, by those who
know the writer, to any desire to attract local attention,
or excite interest in his work. The book must stand on
its own merits, and he would not, if he could, have it
otherwise. If there be no truth or value in its pages, it
will fall and become extinct, as it should. If on the
contrary, it possesses any truth, it will live, and that in
spite of everything, and without any assistance.
A few words in relation to the title and character of
-- 004 --
[figure description] Page 004.[end figure description]
the book, may be advisable. The word Comedy signified
formerly, a representation of human life—and in the
“Human Comedy,” the writer's aim has been to paint
life as it is—men as they are—human beings as they
speak and act when moved by those diverse and conflicting
passions and emotions which are the common inheritance
of humanity. It has thus happened that the work
contains—or was intended to contain—types, so to speak,
of human life: representing, each, different classes, and
with an underlying philosophy in their careers, which the
author trusts is quite pure and genuine in its presentation.
In Doctor Fossyl he has tried to depict a character
hardened by contact with material dogmas, and driven to
scepticism by subjecting spiritual things to tests purely
rational;—in Mr. Fantish a young man with a nature
originally pure, yielding to vice from the pressure of
powerful inducements;—in Miss Incledon, the woman
too weak to resist the glittering temptations of the
world, and entangling herself in a web dangerous and
terrible;—and in Captain Tarnish, the adventurer, without
courage as without conscience, a true type of that
class of individuals who float on the waves of society, as
scum does on the surface of a stream. These characters,
it may be said, are not healthful or agreeable companions
for the reader, and that is very true; but they exist.
They would never had been drawn, had not their antidotes,
so to speak, existed too. The writer trusts that
Mr. Sansoucy will counteract Mr. Fantish and his friend,
the Captain—Mr. Incledon, Doctor Fossyl—Miss Incledon
he quite neutralized by Aurelia,—while Monsieur
-- 005 --
[figure description] Page 005.[end figure description]
Guillemot may be permitted to stand vis-à-vis to Mr.
Heartsease; and Lucia, the poor flower of another clime,
to her friend Wide-Awake. To end this summary, which
has already extended too far—in the sketch of Ellie, the
writer has tried to show how a pure spirit, even though it
be in the bosom of a child, will run through the variegated
woof of that life which surrounds it, like a thread of pure
gold, and that all who come in contact with it will carry
away something to elevate and purify them, and make
them better. It was in delineating this child—poorly
and feebly as it is done—that the writer experienced his
greatest pleasure; and he can only regret his want of
ability to represent adequately the pure loveliness of the
journalist's little friend.
Briefly to sum up everything then for the kind reader,
detained already much too long—the chief aim of this
book has been to show the beauty and loveliness of
kindness—the reward which charity not seldom, even in
this world, reaps; the influence of purity and self-sacrifice,
even when they are exemplified in the character
and actions of a child—finally, the supreme truth which
underlies all true philosophy, that human nature in its
worst manifestations, and under its most repulsive forms,
does never, and can never lose wholly the good impulses
given to it by God. By failure or success in these particulars,
would the writer have his work judged and
tested. If it teaches, however feebly, the sweetness and
nobility of love, and the perennial beauty of goodness
and charity, the hours dedicated to it will not have been
thrown away. Beyond this he had scarcely the right to
-- 006 --
[figure description] Page 006.[end figure description]
ask anything: but as it is the province and voluntary
undertaking of Art to search everywhere for these noble
lessons and pictures, and to place them as clearly as
possible before the eyes of the world—so the right of the
artist to pray for a kind consideration of his performance,
and due charity for its faults, will not be denied, or called
in question. If this book excites simple emotions of pity
and kindness in the breasts even of children, the writer
will be abundantly satisfied. He has much faith in such
a criticism, and is not unwilling to subject his work to
such youthful critics, or those who judge with like impartiality—
certain if there is anything truthful and sincere
in the volume, it will not fail to be justly appreciated.
Richmond, April, 1855.
-- 007 --
CONTENTS.
[figure description] Page 007.[end figure description]
BOOK I.
Page.
CHAPTER I. Richmond: on a December morning 11
CHAPTER II. How Ellie thought of her shawl 17
CHAPTER III. Introduces Wide-Awake 22
CHAPTER IV. Ellie and her needle 27
CHAPTER V. Ellie picks up a glove 31
CHAPTER VI. How Ellie was forced to hear a
very singular conversation 36
CHAPTER VII. Hints at the skeleton in Captain
Schminky's house 43
CHAPTER VIII. A gentleman of fashion and an
eccentric 50
CHAPTER IX. A brace of worthies 55
CHAPTER X. The strength of a child 63
CHAPTER XI. How Ellie pawned the gift of her
mother 68
CHAPTER XII. Face to face with hunger 72
CHAPTER XIII. Aunt Phillis 77
CHAPTER XIV. How Ellie met with her friend Lucia 81
CHAPTER XV. The rich do not despise the poor,
they only know nothing about them 87
CHAPTER XVI. How Mr. Sansoucy cheated the wind
and the cold 91
CHAPTER XVII. The Editor of the “Weekly Mammoth.” 95
CHAPTER XVIII. How the Editor of the “Weekly
Mammoth” caused that journal to
wait for copy 100
CHAPTER XIX. Sketches a gentleman of the law 104
CHAPTER XX. Sunrise comes to-morrow 109
-- 008 --
[figure description] Page 008.[end figure description]
BOOK II.
CHAPTER I. Musings of a journalist 113
CHAPTER II. The old actors—where are they? 117
CHAPTER III. How Sansoucy related a fairy tale
with real personages, for his
friend's amusement 126
CHAPTER IV. Doctor Fossyl and the Dance of Death 133
CHAPTER V. The Appian Way and the Catacombs 139
CHAPTER VI. Philosophy of “The Dance.” 150
CHAPTER VII. How Sansoucy was defeated by Mr.
Heartsease 154
CHAPTER VIII. Heartsease criticises Miss Gosyp and
the Banks 162
CHAPTER IX. Contains a charcoal sketch of Captain
Tarnish 172
CHAPTER X. Mr. Sansoucy descends into low life
and makes himself agreeable 180
CHAPTER XI. Aurelia's dress 190
CHAPTER XII. Ellie meets a cynical visitor 199
CHAPTER XIII. Wide-Awake and his enemies 205
CHAPTER XIV. Wide-Awake meditates felony in behalf
of Lucia 214
CHAPTER XV. Aunt Phillis and her castle 223
CHAPTER XVI. The old days and the new 229
CHAPTER XVII. Ellie's dress does not fit her 237
CHAPTER XVIII. Doctor Fossyl and his theories 244
CHAPTER XIX. The Hymn 250
CHAPTER XX. Contains an account of Monsieur
Guillemot's bankruptcy 256
CHAPTER XXI. Recollections of Aunt Phillis 264
CHAPTER XXII. How an unknown friend sent Lucia
a dress 271
-- 009 --
[figure description] Page 009.[end figure description]
CHAPTER XXIII. What better epitaph! 277
CHAPTER XXIV. In the arena: with sketches of the
gladiators 286
CHAPTER XXV. The opera of Don Giovanni 296
CHAPTER XXVI. How Mr Incledon called on Mr. Fantish,
and what passed 305
CHAPTER XXVII. How a man was treated by a woman:
a chapter of interest to philosophers
317
CHAPTER XXVIII. The letter 331
CHAPTER XXIX. Delilah 338
CHAPTER XXX. The night preceding Thursday morning:
three scenes of the comedy 351
CHAPTER XXXI. Second scene 358
CHAPTER XXXII. Scene third and last 364
CHAPTER XXXIII. The elopement 369
CHAPTER XXXIV. How a woman was treated by a man 374
CHAPTER XXXV. How Captain Tarnish came to, and
went from, Mr. Sansoucy's office 377
CHAPTER XXXVI. What took place at the shooting
gallery 386
CHAPTER XXXVII. Doctor Fossyl and his patient 400
CHAPTER XXXVIII. The Ways of Providence 408
BOOK III.
CHAPTER I. In which the history returns to
other personages, and chronicles
a sleigh-ride 418
CHAPTER II. How Mr. Sansoucy very nearly ran
over a woman, and what followed 428
CHAPTER III. Returns to some old friends 434
-- 010 --
[figure description] Page 010.[end figure description]
CHAPTER IV. Recounts the mania of Monsieur
Guillemot's friend Angelique 441
CHAPTER V. Madam Angelique's contribution to
the Fair 446
CHAPTER VI. How the lady had an interview
with Lucia 452
CHAPTER VII. How Wide - Awake and Lucia arranged
their plans 458
CHAPTER VIII. Treats of Mr. Sansoucy and his
sentiments 468
CHAPTER IX. How Heartsease compared Miss Aurelia
to a parrot 474
CHAPTER X. Aurelia explains 483
CHAPTER XI. Heartsease is overheard 492
CHAPTER XII. Aurelia's prize at the Fair 503
CHAPTER XIII. Doctor Fossyl and Sansoucy 510
CHAPTER XIV. An outline of Sansoucy drawn by
himself 517
CHAPTER XV. Explains who passed Mr. Sansoucy
on the stairs 522
CHAPTER XVI. What Aurelia saw and heard at
the picture gallery 531
CHAPTER XVII. Finishes Mr. Heartsease 537
CHAPTER XVIII. “She is not here.” 542
CHAPTER XIX. Lucia gathers her flowers 547
CHAPTER XX. The note and the package, with
the consequences 552
CHAPTER XXI. The Struggle 561
CHAPTER XXII The Victory 572
Main text
-- 011 -- p506-016
BOOK I.
[figure description] Page 011.[end figure description]
CHAPTER I. RICHMOND: ON A DECEMBER MORNING.
On the first day of the month of December, in the year
18—, and just at sunrise, a child was going along one of
the lower streets of the city of Richmond—in the quarter
called, for some reason, “Bird-in-Hand”—her poorly-clad
figure brilliantly illuminated by the morning sunlight
raining its gold upon the chill houses and cold pavements,
her shoulders unconsciously shrinking from the bitter
wind.
She was a child of ten or eleven: she was poor: she
was called Ellie.
But we shall not dismiss our heroine—who is destined
to color, more or less, every page of this book—in a manner
so hasty and unsatisfactory. The child had the finest
brown hair in the world; and this hair waved, rather than
curled, around a countenance from which a pair of large
-- 012 --
[figure description] Page 012.[end figure description]
blue eyes, full of sweetness and goodness, looked into your
face with the softest and most confiding simplicity. The
lips were somewhat sad it is true, and they wore that expression
which seems to indicate suffering at times;—but
this expression was by no means marked or striking—
and a careless observer would have said that the face of
the child was in powerful contrast with her poor and dilapidated
clothing. This clothing consisted of an old
hood of wadding, discolored by the sun and wind of years—
a thin frock of the cheapest and commonest material,
and a shawl of the same description—while her feet were
scarcely covered by her thin worn shoes, which the chill of
the pavement penetrated at every step. The child, in a
word, looked poverty-stricken, but quite content and hopeful,
and the sweet face was such as any sun might have
been glad to shine upon.
On this morning the sun left no detail in the back-ground—
the red light twinkled on her instep, and lit up
joyously the thin folds of her old worn shawl, and even
plunged back into the hood, and turned the ripples of her
brown hair into gold.
In her hand the child carried an old broken pitcher, and
she had managed to wrap the hand in her old shawl before
grasping the handle, in order to protect that portion
of her person from the biting wind.
It might have been thought that she was going to the
market, which was visible two or three squares away, in a
comparatively splendid quarter of the city, for everything
and everybody seemed to be moving in that direction. It
would seem to be the most reasonable thing in the world,
-- 013 --
[figure description] Page 013.[end figure description]
that this poor little dilapidated housekeeper should have
been on her way toward those rich realms of hams and
steaks and legs of mutton, toward which the flood poured,
jostling the market-carts, and bewildering the oracularlooking
donkeys who gazed at everything from beneath
their shaggy eyebrows, as they munched their scanty provender
in the stationary carts. But it soon appeared that
this was not the child's intention. She looked wistfully at
the bright, cold, glittering scene—uttered something like a
sigh, and drawing her old shawl more tightly round her
shoulders as the wind beat against them, turned into a
grocery store at the corner.
It was one of those receptacles of everything eatable,
drinkable and wearable, which are generally kept for
the convenience of families buying in small quantities.
The portly landlord of this hostelry was reading his newspaper
by a stove comfortably warmed; and was evidently
of Germanic extraction. This indeed might have been
surmised from the sign or legend inscribed in gilt letters
above the door without—“Schminky, Grocer;”—but a
single look at the actual Schminky at once verified this
view. He was rotund, red and solemn—“lager” was
written in his eyes, and his German pipe was in his hand
ready to be lighted. He was framed like a picture in a
background of hams, flour barrels, strings of onions, and
barrels of beer; and possessed that staid and dignified air
which lords of the manor have possessed in all ages of the
world.
The child came in, and asked in a timid voice if he had
any milk that morning.
-- 014 --
[figure description] Page 014.[end figure description]
Captain Schminky, for this was his rank, uttered a surly
no, and went on with his paper.
Now, it is quite probable that this circumstance might
have embarrassed a common child; but our little friend
only moved her head very slightly, and quietly went out
closing the door as Captain Schminky lit his pipe.
She turned towards the market and was soon entangled
like a poor flower in its weedy mass. She looked wistfully
at the long rows of “cuts” of all possible descriptions,
which she had now gained a nearer view of; and
this time actually and unmistakeably sighed.
She would have liked to have purchased a little piece of
that tempting meat, or a very few of those attractive looking
vegetables—she scarcely dreamed of the delight of
possessing the finer things daintily spread out for public
admiration;—the child, we say, would have been made
happy by the purchase of the smallest portion of the
enticing stores set forth; but looking at her small coin
sadly, she abandoned any half-formed idea she had con-ceived.
She passed by all the tempting stalls, sought out a milk
cart, and purchased some of the milk. She then crossed
from the market to a baker's shop, and exhausted her whole
stock of money by reducing into possession a small loaf
of bread. She then retraced her steps, drawing her shawl
around her shoulders—passed by the surly grocer's—and
came finally to a sort of hovel, a few steps back from the
mean foot-way.
A low door gave her entrance, and she passed through,
depositing her pitcher and loaf upon an old pine table.
-- 015 --
[figure description] Page 015.[end figure description]
The room was poor and humble to the last degree, but
was also scrupulously neat. The narrow bed in the corner
was as tidy as hands could make it; and you lost sight
of the old tattered counterpane, if such the covering could
be called, in admiration of the elegance with which it was
arranged. The floor was clean swept, the old broken
chairs—including the one without a leg, and the two without
backs—were set against the wall; and the fire-place—
in which two or three small brands of wood smoked, giving
out an imaginary warmth—had been swept up as carefully
as if it were of marble.
At the foot of the old bed a little door led into a sort
of shed, where, it was reasonable to suppose that the
child had her own bed.
As the girl set down her burden, the door re-opened
behind her, and a little boy, whose clothing was one consolidated
rag from top to toe, made his appearance. He
had a pleasing face, and a shock of yellow curls; but at
the moment his face wore an expression of much discontent.
The girl had said as she came in, “I wonder where
Charley is!” and to these words the child answered:
“Here's Charley, and I wish you'd make haste and giv'
me some breakfus.”
“I will directly, Charley,” the girl said, “we must wait
for Uncle Joe, you know.”
“I wish he'd come on; and I wish you'd make haste,
and not take so long to fix yo'-self in the mornin,” observed
Charley.
“I had to, Charley. Indeed, I had to put on all I had,
and my shawl; it was so cold.”
-- 016 --
[figure description] Page 016.[end figure description]
“Cold! it ain't cold!”
And Charley shivered and drew near the embers.
The girl made no reply to these querulous words, beyond
saying soothingly, “It will be warm and good when the
sun gets well up, Charley;” and then she betook herself
busily to making some tea, in an old battered can. As
she bent down, the soft brown hair falling around her
pure countenance, was such as any duchess might have
envied; if, indeed, duchesses are not quite above and independent
of nature, in the matter of hair or other personal
decorations. The child had about her a nameless sweetness,
and gentleness too, that was very touching; and it
was a sight for a philosopher to see her now, busying herself
about the few details of the poor meal.
She made the embers burn up after a fashion, boiled
the water, and prepared everything for making tea. She
then placed the stool with three legs close to the fire, such
as it was, and with a smile which was beautiful to see,
said—
“Come, Charley, warm yourself now—Uncle Joe will be
in very soon, you know; he must be through by this
time.”
Charley muttered something in a very ill-humored way,
and without apology or hesitation assumed the warm seat
by the fire.
The girl took one of the high old chairs, to which lofty
elevation very little heat could mount from the low fire,
and drawing an old soiled book from her pocket began to
read in silence.
Fifteen or twenty minutes passed in this way, and the
-- 017 -- p506-022
[figure description] Page 017.[end figure description]
girl was still bending over the open page, with a happy
expression in her mild soft eyes, when the door opened
and Uncle Joe came in from his morning round.
CHAPTER II. HOW ELLIE THOUGHT OF HER SHAWL.
Uncle Joe was not an octogenarian, as uncles are
generally supposed to be, at least in story books, but a
man of forty or so, with an amiable expression on his thin
face, and a kindly eye. He was clad in an old rough coat,
carefully mended; wore mittens of brown yarn, and his
forehead was covered with an old slouch hat, which had
evidently seen good service, in sun and storm.
The girl closed her book, restored it to her pocket, and
went forward gladly to take his hat and coat.
“Why how well you look, Uncle Joe,” she said softly,
“your face is as bright as it can be.”
He shook his head with a sad smile, and said—
“No, Ellie, I'm not well; I'm took sudden with fever;
I am.”
“Oh, Uncle Joe!”
“There now, Ellie! don't you be flushin' up like fever
too, and gittin' to cryin'. I ain't much sick.”
And the brown rough hand went to Joe's forehead as
he sat down.
“Is it fever?” said Ellie, with a tremor in her voice.
“Oh! Uncle Joe! let me see.”
-- 018 --
[figure description] Page 018.[end figure description]
And she felt first his pulse, and then his brow. The
brow was hot, the pulse galloping Her eyes filled with
tears.
“Yes, they ain't no doubt about it,” said Joe Lacklitter,
“I'm done up—I don't jest know what it is, but I'm done
up. Don't you be a-looking so struck there Charley, but
you eat your breakfast. Get the tea, Ellie, and then go
round to Dr. Jots—'bleeged to have him.”
Ellie fixed every thing with hurried hands, wiping away
many a starting tear as she did so. Then she threw on
her shawl and hastened to the office of Dr. Jots, who
lived in the next street. The doctor, who was not a
favorable specimen of the profession, promised to call
round in the course of the morning, though with many
mutterings, having relation to the ultimate probability of
being repaid for his trouble; and with this scant encouragement,
the child was obliged to be satisfied.
Ellie returned home in haste, scarcely conscious of the
bitter cold, and the driving wind. She found her uncle
in bed, and his flushed face made it very evident that
during her absence the malady had made further progress.
The child nearly burst into tears, so changed was the
thin face, and the calm eyes; but quickly reflecting that
this would be very wrong, she assumed a cheerful look,
and applied herself to the task of making the sick man
comfortable. She prepared a bowl of tea, toasted a slice
of bread, and carefully spreading upon it a small piece of
butter which she took from a plate on the shelf, covered
with brown paper, brought them to the invalid.
“No, Ellie, it's o' no use propin' up the pillar,” said
-- 019 --
[figure description] Page 019.[end figure description]
Joe Lacklitter, “I'm not ready to eat nothin' just now,
little gal. I'm a-doin' very well.”
“Oh, Uncle Joe! just try a mouthful—just a sip—it
will do you good.”
“Can't,” said Joe, trying to look well, “I'm took down
too sudden. I knowed it was comin'! The mornin's was
so bad, and my beat was so far, and I ain't been well sence
I was sick last summer.”
Ellie turned away to wipe two large tears from her
eyes, and then sat down by the invalid's bedside.
Dr. Jots came in an hour; felt the sick man's pulse;
looked at his tongue, and cheerfully assured him that he
was “in for a rather long spell.” He then carelessly
scribbled something on a piece of paper, told the sick man
to “get that” at the apothecary's, and went away.
Joe tried to smile, but it was a woeful sight, for his
head was racked with fever.
“Get that,” he murmured, “but how 'm I? My pay's
a week in advance to me, and 'thout you, Ellie—”
“Oh!” said Ellie, with a sinking heart, but smiling for
all that, “don't be uneasy, Uncle Joe, I'll get it.”
“You're a good girl,” said Joe, turning over, “I dunno
what would come to me 'thout you. I'm glad you've got
a little left. But wrap up good.”
He then turned over, and closing his hot eyes tried to
sleep.
“A little left!” No, Ellie had nothing; she had expended
the whole of her little stock that morning in buying
breakfast, and she had not so much as a cent. What was
-- 020 --
[figure description] Page 020.[end figure description]
to be done? And as she asked herself this question,
Ellie's heart sank.
For a moment she stood irresolute, with her eyes fixed
vacantly on Charley, who sat in the chimney corner crying
and wiping his eyes on his dirty sleeve; then, with a sob,
she sat down and covered her face with her hands. Her
lips moved, but no sound came forth, and the small form
shook. Then she raised her head, and her calm face
proved that she had been obedient, and gone for strength
to the place of strength. Her eyes fell on her shawl.
That shawl was the only article of clothing she possessed
worth bartering—or which any reasonable money-lender
would so much as look at. It would not be so
cold, as the warm sunny morning came on, she said to
herself. The question whether it would also be warm as
the snowy freezing December came on, did not occur to
her.
She easily obtained for the shawl the trifle which she
asked, and which she supposed would suffice; and then
hastening from the house, whose inmate received thus the
sole wrapping of the child, without compunction or so
much as a thought upon the subject, bent her way rapidly
towards the apothecary's.
She had enough to pay for the bottle, and holding it
carefully she took her way back to the hovel.
She found the sick man sleeping heavily, and unrolling
the medicine, carefully read the directions and prepared to
give the draught on his waking.
Charley was not there—probably he had been tempted
to go and warm himself at the cellar opposite, for the fire
-- 021 --
[figure description] Page 021.[end figure description]
was nearly out, and the room was growing colder and
colder.
The child looked for a minute at the vacant fire-place,
and almost sobbed. The last stick of wood had been
burned on the night before, and her heart fainted at the
prospect of having no fire for her sick uncle. She went
into her small closet, leaned her head upon the pallet, and
for some minutes remained silent, save that some broken
sobs, growing more and more subdued, indicated that the
child's thoughts were elsewhere—her heart raised to a
Friend who does not forsake us.
When she came out, her face was resigned and calm;
she put on her old bonnet, and taking a broken basket,
went out into the street.
For an hour she wandered about, picking up such
chance splinters of wood, and scattered bits of coal, as
she could find. Spite of the most careful gleaning, some
bits of coal would remain in the interstices of the stones
after the loads were stowed away, and these were assiduously
collected by the child and deposited in her basket,
the broken bottom of which she supplied by the paper in
which the medicine had been wrapped.
At the end of an hour she had collected quite an armful
of broken pieces of wood, and her basket was nearly
full of the coal “trash;” and she hastened quickly back,
driven onward by the chill, biting wind, which attacked
her almost bare shoulders with cruel animosity, but more
than all by the thought that her uncle was alone.
It was a piteous sight to see the child so thinly clad, and
buffeted by the wind, which cut through her poor clothing
-- 022 -- p506-027
[figure description] Page 022.[end figure description]
like a frozen blade of steel. The old shawl had been some
protection, but this was gone now, and the small form
trembled and shook—shivering at every new attack of the
freezing wind. The sun shone brightly, but seemed to be
laughing ironically at the idea of any one's supposing that
his beams had the least warmth in them—and the paving
stones were freezing cold, and numbed the poor child's
feet.
She hastened on, however, and had nearly reached home,
when she saw a crowd of vagabond boys at the corner of
the street, and, in the midst of them, little Charley, who
was observable at once from the great difference in his age
and size. Ellie knew that many of these boys were of bad
character, and stopped to call Charley to go home with her.
CHAPTER III. INTRODUCES WIDE-AWAKE.
At the sound of the child's voice, the eldest boy in the
group turned round and stared at her carelessly. He was
sixteen or seventeen years old, apparently, but might
have been a year younger, for the houseless wanderers of
city streets look old and knowing long before their childhood
has gone by. This boy was clad almost handsomely—
splendidly indeed, compared with his companions—and had
a careless, reckless air, which had evidently procured him
the chiefship among his comrades. In all their occupations,
as newsboys, paper-carriers, errand-runners, and
-- 023 --
[figure description] Page 023.[end figure description]
petty thieves, Beau Sam or Sam Beau—or Wide-Awake,
as the friends of this gentleman preferred calling him—
was easily the chief and leader.
Ellie had seen him often, and they would frequently
exchange salutations, and walk some distance together,
when they met; and thus, as the child came up now and
called to Charley, Wide-Awake turned round, and, in the
technical phrase, “hailed her.”
“I say! my eyes! you've been beggin'!”
“No, indeed, I have not, Sam,” said the child, “but it is
so cold I can't stop. Come on home, Charley, wont you?”
Charley grumbled, and first took up one bare foot, then
the other, undecidedly.
“We aint a-goin' to let him go. He's goin' to be one
of our party,” said one of the boys in the last stage of
dilapidation.
“Oh, no!” said Ellie, stepping back from the speaker
with irrepressible dislike, for he was one of the most
dangerous young thieves in the whole neighbourhood;
“Oh, no! Charley don't want to go with you.”
“I tell you he does!” said the boy, with a swagger;
“and we're goin' now to —.”
“Oh, no! Charley!” cried the child: “do not go with
him. Indeed, indeed, he will make you bad; you are so
little, and—and—”
Ellie turned away to repress a sob. Her heart overburdened
with anxiety and grief for her sick uncle, could
scarcely stand this new trial, and she almost burst into
tears.
“Go it!” cried the tattered boy; “she's goin' to cry,
-- 024 --
[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]
she is. Come on, young 'un—I'll treat you to hot
coffee and brile. Come on!”
Charley stood whimpering and undecided. A mere
little bit of a child, it is scarcely wonderful that he should
have been tempted by the offers of the boy, which were
now all summed up in the shape of hot coffee and a hot
broil.
The boy saw his advantage, and taking Charley by the
arm, made a face at Ellie, and drew him away.
“Oh, no, no, don't go, Charley! don't go!” cried
Ellie, dropping her armful of wood, and putting her arm
round the child; “Oh, no! you must not go.”
“He shall, I tell you! Now you jest take your hand
off o' his shoulder, will you?”
This request was accompanied by a gesture to the
effect that Ellie would immediately repent any interference
if she dared to persevere. This was evidently the meaning
of the young bully. But as the Moor says, “Who
can control his fate?” Just as the threatening arm was
raised, another fist came in contact with the tattered
boy's head, and he found himself immediately engaged in a
combat with Wide-Awake, who until the moment of
attack, had watched this contest with philosophic interest,
leaning against a lamp-post, and picking his teeth.
The battle was not long, and by the time Ellie had
picked up her armful of wood, and taken Charley by the
hand, (he looked very sorry now,) Wide-Awake's victory
was achieved. A last kick sent his adversary into the
gutter, whereupon he was hailed with shouts as more than
ever chief and commander. Wide-Awake received these
-- 025 --
[figure description] Page 025.[end figure description]
tokens of public approbation with much indifference, and
assuming his former careless and rakish position against
the lamp-post, said to Charley—
“Now, you young man, go home, and mind your sister,
and don't come around this crowd. You better not. If
I see you with any of 'em, I'll lick you.”
Charley whimpered at this, and took up his feet one
after the other.
“I say,” added Wide-Awake confidentially, as Ellie
turned tearfully toward home; “the old organ grinder
over ther's dead. Did you know it?”
“Oh no! Is he?” said Ellie.
“Yes he is.”
“But Lucia is—”
“You mean she aint got nobody—don't you?”
“Yes.”
“Well she aint, but I'm goin' to try and help her.”
“That's very good in you, Sam—I'll go and see her—
as soon as—when—very soon, I mean, Sam,” said Ellie,
thinking of her sick uncle, and hurrying away. “I'm
very much obliged to you, Sam—good bye.”
And Ellie hastened homeward. Charley was quite submissive
and repentant now, and watched the bed and the fire
alternately. Ellie knelt down and arranged the splinters and
put some bits of coal on them, and blew it until it kindled.
She then rose, and taking an old tumbler and a pewter
spoon from the shelf, set it by the medicine in order to
administer the draught as soon as the sick man awaked.
The child did all this with strange energy and calmness
-- 026 --
[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]
—indeed she seemed to be scarcely herself. But yesterday
a timid child, now almost a woman—poor little
woman of eleven!—she almost wondered at herself.
Sitting by the small fire she leaned her head upon her
hand, and pondered long and deeply, until her very brain
ached, indeed, with the new weight of cares. Everything
now was to be done by herself—there was nothing “in
the house”—and her uncle was sick. Food, fuel, medicine—
all these were necessary to his existence. Where
were they to come from? Ellie's lip trembled as she
thought of it, and she restrained with difficulty the tears
which filled her eyes.
It was the habit of this child, however, to make an
actual practical use of that faith which so many of us keep
for seasons of discourse and devotion, and quietly repudiate
as an element which should enter into everyday life—
doing away with our fears, and yet not making us remiss
in resolute endeavor. Ellie's faith was warm and living,
and if in the presence of these terrifying obstacles her
weak heart trembled, he did not doubt, or give way to
despondency.
About noon Joe Lacklitter woke and turned in his old
bed. Ellie was at his side with a look of love and pity
and tenderness which was beautiful to see.
The fever had, if anything, gained upon him, and his
cheeks were burning.
The child brought the medicine, and administered it as
the label directed; then beat up his pillow, and brought
him a hot cup of tea and the toast.
“I might have made you a little soup, dear Uncle Joe,”
-- 027 -- p506-032
[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]
she said, tenderly; “for there's a little piece of meat left,
but I thought it would be too strong, you know.”
“Yes, yes, I couldn't 'a' teched it—I couldn't,” said
Joe, with a sickly smile; “you're a good girl,—a good
girl. I think I might try a little tea.”
Ellie hastened to place the old pillow behind his back,
and held the cup to his lips. He drank, and after eating
a mouthful of the toast, lay down again. The child carefully
covered him, and assuming a cheerful smile, said he
would soon be better. Joe smiled himself, and muttering
again, “a good girl! a good girl!” sank into uneasy
slumber.
CHAPTER IV. ELLIE AND HER NEEDLE.
So the day passed,—the “long, long weary day,” as
says the song,—and Ellie saw night draw on, cold and
stormy, and threatening snow.
The child had been reflecting all the afternoon upon her
situation, and long before dark had betaken herself to her
needle. This was to save candle light, and besides she
could think very well while she was working, and had the
further satisfaction of knowing that she was getting on
with her work. When night came she assisted Charley
to undress, and saw that he was comfortably wrapped from
the cold in the poor, tattered covering; after which she
returned to work again.
-- 028 --
[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]
The sick man was still slumbering heavily, and whenever
he moved, the child cast anxious glances towards the
bed. She sewed on until her eyes ached in the twilight,
and then carefully adjusting it so that the light would not
fall in the sleeper's eyes, she lit a piece of candle in an old
battered candlestick, and recommenced her work, replenishing
the fire from time to time carefully, with an eye to
the small remaining stock of wood and coal.
Ellie was working at a lace collar of the richest description.
She had taken it from the lower drawer of an old
pine affair in her closet, the key of which she took with
others from her pocket, and it was evident that it had
already cost much labor. A word in explanation here as
to the child's possession of this costly fabric; perhaps this
slight digression may explain other things.
Joe Lacklitter, whose chief business was the distribution
of newspapers to subscribers, had received into his
poor rooms, or rather room, the two children of his
brother, who had died some two years before. Their
mother had been a woman much above her sphere when
she died, and possessed more than one accomplishment
unusual in the occupants of hovels. She had taught Ellie,
at the age of six or seven, to read fluently, and before she
was nine had made of the child quite an accomplished
needle-woman. Mrs. Lacklitter had entirely supported
herself, her children, and an idle and drunken husband, by
means of her needle: and the elegance with which she
executed the delicate work so much prized by ladies for
collars, had supplied her with constant occupation.
Ellie had often taken these articles to good Mrs. Brown,
-- 029 --
[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]
at the “Seamstress' Union,” where work was given to
poor needle-women, and brought back to her mother the
money for them. Then one day she timidly asked Mrs.
Brown if she had no work for her,—and Mrs. Brown
smiling and asking if she meant in the meal-bag line,
Ellie had replied, “no, such as mother did, but not so
fine.” Mrs. Brown was very merry at this, but her merriment
gave way to surprise when Ellie sat down and worked
some before her eyes: and the end of all this was that at
nine years old the child was trusted with this delicate
work, and thus assisted her mother.
Her father died, in a drunken debauch it was said; but
this was spared the child. She was not long afterwards
called to the bedside of her dying mother. Her mother
had gazed at her wistfully, said she had something private
to tell her, sent every one out of the room, but had apparently
no courage to speak. She had only blessed her
children and committed them into the hands of God.
Ellie, with little Charley on her lap, was sobbing as if her
heart would break, when Joe Lacklitter came and took
her up and kissed her, and said he “had his part to do
and he was going to do it—he was;” the result of which
declaration was, that the orphan children were taken to
his poor dwelling; and he had never repented it. There
was a soft and tender gentleness about Ellie which often
caused him to look at her with astonishment; but this was
quite swallowed up in his affection for her. Charley, too,
was a good little child, and, though somewhat fretful, had
never caused him any trouble.
They had thus lived for two years—Joe Lacklitter
-- 030 --
[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]
attending to his business, and Ellie regularly working for
good Mrs. Brown, who often told her that her work was
much admired, and trusted her without hesitation with the
costliest fabrics. There is a magnetism in honesty, and
Mrs. Brown knew that her things were sacred in the eyes
of the poor child. Thus they had gone on up to the
present, and it was no common contingency which Ellie
was called to meet. Her needle must support the household,
child as she was—God help her!—and she must not
despair.
So she sat working at the rich collar for hours while
still the slumberer breathed heavily and turned on his
couch.
Whenever he turned, as we have said, Ellie would lay
down her work, rise quickly, and, poised upon one foot,
listen if the sleeper had awaked and wanted anything.
As she stood thus, with her soft brown hair falling
around her fair pure face, she might have realized one of
the dreams of Raphael, though canvass never could
have held the mingled tenderness and purity of the child.
She would then sit down, and bending over the small
fire, ply her needle—shrinking a little it may be when the
blast rushed in, and shivering in her thin poor dress;
but still she worked on, and did not stop, but true to her
high heart, heeded not all the passing hours clashed from
the sombre bells on the wild wandering night. Surely
the poor dim candle did not prevent one eye from seeing,
or the wild wind drown the low soft voice which rose
from the child's lips as she knelt and prayed.
Before midnight she had finished the collar, and
-- 031 -- p506-036
[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]
exhausted all her fuel. She half-undressed herself only,
and lay down on her poor pallet, watchful for the waking
of the sick man. But he slumbered heavily, and yielding
gradually to sleep, the child slumbered too—her cheek
upon her arm—worn out with toil and grief.
CHAPTER V. ELLIE PICKS UP A GLOVE.
Ellie was up betimes next morning, and at her uncle's
bedside.
He had slumbered heavily throughout the night, and
the malady seemed in that time to have gathered new
strength. His cheek was burning, and his eye had that
fitful wandering expression which denotes the mastery of
disease over the mental as well as the physical part of
man's system. Ellie felt more than ever that sinking of
the heart which is worse than a thousand tears; and it
was a hard struggle to trust implicitly in that Being to
whom she had just offered her prayer on her bended
knees.
She felt more than ever her almost powerless condition,
and with one hand upon the sick man's pillow, she leaned
over him and cried silently for some moments. He
opened his eyes at last, and with a sort of dim consciousness
that it was the real Ellie, and not the angel of his
dreams, tried to smile; but it was a sickly attempt, and
he soon sank back with a low sigh of pain.
-- 032 --
[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]
Ellie carefully arranged the cover, and suppressing her
tears, betook herself to kindling the two or three bits of
wood which she had reserved. She then waked and
assisted Charley in dressing, and made some tea for him.
The first thing to be done was to get the money for
the collar, as more medicine would be wanted, and to ask
the doctor to come again; this the child determined to
do at once. She instructed Charley, who was now quite
subdued, and anxious to remain at home, and if her uncle
stirred to get anything he wanted—tea or water, or anything—
and then she put on her old bonnet, wrapped up
the collar, and set forth.
Dr. Jots gave a surly assent to her request that he
would call at once, as her uncle was much worse; and
then she set forward again, through the bitter sunrise, on
her way.
Suddenly, in passing the office of the newspaper which
her uncle was accustomed to serve to subscribers, she
remembered that they ought to know of his sickness; and
accordingly she went in and said that he was ill. The
information was received by the greasy looking clerk with
as many grumblings as had fallen to her lot in the case
of Dr. Jots. It had occurred to Ellie to ask an advance
upon her uncle's weekly pay, but the rude manner of the
clerk, added to the fact, which she now remembered, that
her uncle had stated his indebtedness for a week in
advance, paralyzed the child's tongue, and she could not
find the words to prefer her request.
She went out endeavoring to hide her tears, and again
set forward through the chill sunrise on her way.
-- 033 --
[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]
She arrived at the “Seamstress' Union,” and almost
burst into tears at the disappointment which met her. It
was closed: and she suddenly remembered that this was
one of the two days in the week when Mrs. Brown closed
her shop, and went out to carry work to her “hands,”
and give them instructions.
It was a bitter disappointment, and the child sat down
on the stone before the door and cried. Early wayfarers
passed her and looked curiously at her, and went on in
silence;—or a paper carrier uttered a good natured “hallo,
young 'un,” and then hurried on; or baker boys in fast-driving
carts, asked her the “time o' day for breakfast;”—
still the child's tears flowed, and she seemed oblivious of
all around her, gazing at the cruel door which had shut
out with its iron clasp her only hope.
She sat thus on the cold stone for a long time, trying to
think what she should do. Mrs. Brown would not return
until evening—but evening would find them destitute, and
she could not leave her uncle again. What could she
do—oh! what could she do!
Suddenly her eye fell upon the package containing the
collar, and she remembered that it was for a lady whom
she had often done such things for. She would go to her,
and tell her why she came, and get the money, and afterwards
explain to good Mrs. Brown, who could not surely
blame her. Ellie rose at once, and wrapping her cold
hands in her apron, took her way towards the residence of
Miss Incledon, who lived at the house of her aunt.
She knocked timidly, and told the well-fed servant, who
-- 034 --
[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]
was coming out with a rug upon his arm and a broom in
his hand, that she wanted to see Miss Silvia.
Very good, the man said, he knew she couldn't, being
as Miss Silvia wasn't up yet—but he 'd send. Telegraphing
accordingly to a chambermaid, who was going up
stairs, he stated the child's request, and then returned to
his work singing, as contented and well-fed domestics will.
The maid returned in ten minutes with a message from
her mistress that the child was to come in. She would be
down soon “to practice,” and would see her.
Ellie went into the parlor, where a good blazing fire
had just been kindled, and sat down timidly upon a cricket,
holding her hands to the blaze. They were bitter cold,
and she had not been near so fine a fire for a long time.
Having warmed herself, she looked around and scanned
the apartments of the room with forlorn curiosity.
It was a richly furnished apartment, with silk damask
curtains, a Brussels carpet, and massive rosewood furniture.
Everything indicated comfort, and Ellie could not
forbear comparing it with the poor room she had just left,
where her uncle lay, burnt up with fever, and without the
necessaries of life. But this thought did not make her
envious, and she banished it at once, folding her hands
and making up her mind to wait patiently.
Chancing to look around after a few moments, Ellie's
eyes lit upon a yellow kid glove, which lay upon the floor
by the sofa, within a foot or two of her; and she reached
over and picked it up. Just within the wrist-band of the
glove, which was evidently a man's, was visible in the
-- 035 --
[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
broken letters of a tin copying card—and marked crosswise
as if in careless sport—the name “A. Fantish.”
Ellie was still looking absently at the glove, when a
light step behind her attracted her attention, and turning
round she saw the young lady she had come to see. Miss
Incledon was about twenty-two, had magnificent dark hair
and eyes, and wore a handsome morning dress, which set
off her superb figure to great advantage. Her face was
beautiful and animated, but a latent excitability in the
dark eyes seemed to indicate a quick temper, not entirely
under its mistress's control.
“Oh! it is you, child, is it?—the little sewing girl. I
have not forgotten you,” said Miss Incledon, “do you
wish to—”
Suddenly seeing the glove in the child's hands, she
stopped and colored.
“What—where—did you get that?” she said taking it.
“I picked it up from the floor, ma'am,” said Ellie, who
had risen and was standing respectfully back from the fire.
“From the floor!—oh, yes—he must have dropped it.
That is—no matter.”
And Miss Incledon, with a careless air, thrust the glove
into her reticule.
“Did you want to see me?” she said, going to the piano,
opening it, and running her hand over the keys.
“Yes ma'am, I brought your collar.”
“My collar?”
“I was working it for Mrs. Brown, you know, ma'am.”
“Oh, yes—my thread lace—let me see.”
Ellie unrolled and handed it to the young lady.
-- 036 -- p506-041
[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
“Very pretty.”
Ellie smiled with the gentle ingenuous air of a child
who is praised. The young lady looked at it for some
moments, placed it around her white throat, and then
laying it down on the piano, said as she ran her hand
over the keys,
“Sit down, and warm yourself.”
Ellie blushed and hesitated.
“If you please, ma'am,” she faltered, with a threatened
tear; “my uncle is sick, and we have no money—and—”
“You want me to pay for this? Oh, certainly! I
might have known you came for—”
As she spoke, the door opened, and the servant putting
his head in, announced respectfully, “Mr. Ralph, ma'am.”
A quick color came to the young lady's face, and the
hand which she had moved toward her pocket, stopped.
Before she could speak farther, the door opened wide,
and a gentleman came in.
CHAPTER VI. HOW ELLIE WAS FORCED TO HEAR A VERY SINGULAR CONVERSATION.
He was a man of about twenty-five, of tall stature and
fine appearance—though his face wore an expression of
gravity amounting almost to melancholy. He was clad
handsomely but plainly, and seemed to be familiar with
the apartment which he entered.
-- 037 --
[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
“Good morning, Silvia,” he said, gravely. “You will
excuse this early call, but I had something to say to you
in confidence, and I knew you would be here, and alone.”
The young lady had already lost her careless air, and
met the new comer with ill-disguised distaste, with which
was mingled no little disquiet.
“I am not alone this morning, however,” she now said,
pointing to Ellie.
“Ah!” said the gentleman, with a kindly smile toward
the child, whose gentle expression seemed at once to
attract his attention, “you have an early visitor.”
The young lady played with the ribbon of her sash, and
was silent.
“I wished to talk with you this morning, Silvia,” continued
the gentleman; “will you permit me?”
“Certainly,” was the reply, but in a tone so cold, that
it was obvious in what mood the conversation would proceed.
Indeed Miss Incledon seemed to be bracing her
nerves for a struggle, and to know the strength of her
adversary.
The gentleman pointed to Ellie.
“We can speak alone, can we not?” he said.
“That child is nobody,” she replied.
“Have you business with her?”
“Yes, some collars I wish made.”
The gentleman sat down.
“I will wait,” he said.
Miss Incledon flirted the ribbon she was playing
with.
“I don't know when I shall get through,” she said.
-- 038 --
[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
“But I am pressed for time.”
“I am sorry.”
“And have something I wish to say.”
“I will hear it,” she said, bracing her nerves and
coloring.
The gentleman placed his hat upon the sofa, and drawing
his chair near the young lady said, as Ellie fearfully
retreated toward the fire:
“You probably know, Silvia, the object of this visit,
for it is not the first time I have been driven to the
miserable task of fulfilling what I promised my uncle,
your father. Hitherto we have spoken on this disagreeable
subject alone. You compel me to do what is
repugnant to me—speak before another person, though
that person is a child. I cannot help it.”
Another flirt of the ribbon, but no reply.
“I was at the ball last night, Silvia,” continued the
gentleman.
“Were you, sir!”
“Yes: and I saw Mr. Fantish there.”
A gush of crimson blood covered the young lady's
face, and her eyes flashed.
“This was the subject then—”
“Which I wished to speak with you about? Yes,”
said her companion, curbing a fire in his own eye which
seemed to reply to that in her own.
“The subject is distasteful, and I have told you so,
sir,” said the young lady almost rudely, and for the first
time addressing the gentleman formally as “sir.”
“You have told me so—that is true,” he said,
-- 039 --
[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
repressing his feelings, which seemed to be bitterly wounded
by the lady's tone; “but you have not shown me it is
not my duty as an honorable gentleman, and as your
relation, to return to the subject.”
“I am not aware that because you are my cousin, you
have the right to annoy me.”
“I do not wish to annoy you.”
“But I am annoyed, sir—greatly annoyed.”
“I regret it: but you cannot have forgotten the ground
upon which I base my right to speak upon this subject.
I certainly have mentioned it in former interviews.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the young lady, giving way to her
irritation: “I have heard it until I am sick of it.”
“Then you do not forget that I promised your father
to perform as well as I was able a brother's part while
you were here in the city without other male relatives?”
“No, sir!”
“That he requested me to do so in the first place himself?”
“No sir! I have not forgotten it. You made but one
slight mistake.”
“A mistake?”
“Yes, sir. You forgot your `brother's part,' and
assumed that of `lover.”'
The bitterly poisoned arrow struck the mark at which
it was directed, and a deep flush covered the brow of the
gentleman, and his eyes flashed. It was some moments
before he could master his feelings, but when he spoke the
mastery was complete.
“It is true, Silvia,” he said, gravely, “that I was led
-- 040 --
[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
into the indiscretion of admiring you more than any one
else of my acquaintance, and I do not know that even the
unkind speech you have just uttered is not true. But
surely I was therein guilty of no breach of trust in what
I had promised your father. I do not think that this
requires any argument, and I only regret that your evident
irritation should have led you to utter a taunt, which is
also an injustice. If I experienced such feelings as you
charge me with—and I can scarcely deny it—there was
surely nothing improper in them. You soon gave me to
understand that your affections were engaged—that was
frank and honest—and I succeeded in suppressing what
was a very wayward and foolish feeling in my own bosom.
I am true enough gentleman, I think, and strong enough
in will, to bend my feelings to my sense of right; and I
most honestly assure you that I did not conceive the idea
of struggling with the unknown person whom you had
spoken of.”
“And since, sir,” she said, unmoved by the clear, fine
voice and noble look, “since then!—what have you done
since?”
“I certainly have not endeavored to make a place in
your heart for myself by turning out a rival, as you may
suppose him.”
“I know nothing of your intentions, sir,” replied the
young lady, whose flashing eyes betrayed a temper completely
aroused.
“You will pardon me for saying that I do, however,”
he replied, “and what I have said before—what I now
wish to say—is strictly in pursuance of my trust.”
-- 041 --
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
“Wish to say! Well, sir, speak on,” she said, with cold
dignity but evident disquiet.
“I stated that I was at the ball last night.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Fantish was there.”
“Yes, sir.”
Her eyes flashed whenever that name was uttered.
“My wish,” continued the gentleman, “is to tell you as
accurately as possible, what occurred in a corner of the
room—in a very few words.”
“Well, sir, said the lady, with a nervous shudder.
“Mr. Fantish was standing in the midst of a party of
young men,” her companion continued, calmly, “with
whom, I believe, he is very popular. The reputation of a
“fast man” is very taking with a certain class of persons,
and Mr. Fantish is said to be of that description. I was
standing within a few feet of him, and I heard one of his
friends ask him why he was not waltzing. `Because I am
sick of embracing,' he replied. `I have no idea of being
smothered.' `Do you mean waltzing?' asked Mr. Fantish's
friend. `Yes, I mean waltzing,' he replied, `but I
have been through something even stronger than that.
There 's a little girl over yonder who is desperately in love
with me—poor thing!—and, if I would only let her, she
would smother me'—”
“It is not true!—he did not say it!” Miss Incledon
broke out.
“Exactly those words,” replied the gentleman, as pale
as death, but speaking quite calmly, “and he added that
-- 042 --
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
he had left his glove behind—a straw colored glove, I observed.
Have you seen it, Silvia?”
It was visible through the net-work of the reticule.
She covered her face with her hands, and cried with
anger and agitation.
“Is my word sufficient for you?” he said, “but I see
you do not doubt me. If you had seen me when I left
the ball, you would have believed me.”
She made no reply.
“Is it necessary for me to say again, Silvia,” he added,
“that a man who thus bandies your affection, if not your
name, from mouth to mouth—who throws only this thin
veil over a base and dishonorable charge—who, despising
all women, and deriding their purity, cannot even spare
the pure young girl who has given him her affection—I
say, is it necessary for me to add, that this man is unworthy
of your regard, that you are running into an enormous
danger by receiving him, and that you cannot too soon
dissolve all connection with him?”
The young lady made no reply, but overwhelmed with
a thousand conflicting emotions, was completely silent.
Whether she was finding excuses for the offender, or
embittering her heart slowly against him, could not be
discovered from her face. She certainly, however, did
not doubt the relation—that was evident.
“My last word, Silvia,” said the gentleman, rising, “is
beware! You do not know the falseness of this man—
you cannot know to what depths of vice his passions have
dragged an originally good nature—for I knew him. As
your relative, as the representative of your good father,
-- 043 -- p506-048
[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
as your best friend—and not for an instant as your lover—
I beseech you to be cautious. I do not suggest your
course; you are old enough to follow your own views.
For the last time, take care of this man, or you will suffer
lifelong remorse.”
Having uttered these words with the same steadfast
calmness, the gentleman bowed and went out. The young
lady remained for a moment overcome by her feelings;
then seeing Ellie, she thrust a piece of money into her
hand which was more than the value of her work, pointed
to the door, and again covered her face.
Ellie, full of astonishment and agitation, obeyed, and
was again in the street.
CHAPTER VII. HINTS AT THE SKELETON IN CAPTAIN SCHMINKY'S HOUSE.
With the closing door vanished all that world of rich
furniture, and warmth and comfort, for the child. She
was again in the chill bleak street—one of the poor—
and face to face with poverty and hunger.
Hunger! How many are ignorant of the meaning of
the word!—how many are, alas! too well acquainted
with it! Hunger! the cry of the mean and ignoble
body—the material organization—the growl of the
sleeping animal ready to tear its Slave-Lord, the soul!
Hunger! The hand to hand struggle with the tendency
-- 044 --
[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
to faintness and death!—the despairing conviction that
a step only remains between life and the dark beyond,
which draws ever nearer—the thought that others are
revelling in plenty, while you are failing for want of the
crumbs which even the dogs may gather! This is what
it is to be poor and in want—this is what the sick ages
stagger under, drawing ever near to the day when the
awful question shall be asked, “Lord, when saw we
thee an hungered, or athrist, or a stranger, or naked, or
sick, or in prison, and did not minister unto thee?”—and
when that terrible reply shall be returned, “Verily I say
unto you, inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of
these, ye did it not to me!”
Ellie returned thus to her struggle, and retracing her
way as quickly as her faintness would permit—for she
had tasted nothing for nearly twenty-four hours—reached
home.
Charley had had the good fortune to procure some fuel
from an old negro woman, who lived in the cellar opposite—
Aunt Phillis had more than once befriended Ellie—and
so the fire had not entirely died out. The doctor had
called for a moment, and written another prescription
in her absence; and this the child handed to his sister.
Her first thought, however, was for her uncle; and so,
assuming a cheerful and hopeful expression, which hid a
weary and anxious heart, Ellie went to his bedside.
“How do you feel now, uncle?” she asked; “I went
away before you were quite waked up.”
“Poorly, poorly,” said Joe in a faint voice; “the
fever's got me regular, daughter.”
-- 045 --
[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
“Oh, do not think it is very bad,” said Ellie, earnestly;
“you'll soon be well, and we shall get on very well.”
“That troubles me more than all, an' makes my head
hotter 'n the fever,” murmured Joe.
“Oh, don't be troubled, dear uncle. I went this morning
and got the pay for my collar—see how much—and
we're quite rich.”
He looked at the tender gentle face with great affection,
and murmuring “a good girl,” fell back faintly.
“Have you had some tea, uncle?” she asked cheerily.
“I'll make you some hot in a minute.
“Yes, I had some.”
“Well then, I'll go out and get something to make
you some nice soup, and call and get the medicine. I
called at the paper office, and told them you were sick,
and it is all right.”
“Good Ellie.”
“Oh, no, I 'm not good, and it is very little to do for
you—I mean anything would be—after all your love and
kindness to me and Charley.”
Ellie accompanied these soft words with a look which
made the poor sick man murmur a blessing, and then
hastened to get his draught. Having duly administered
it, she put on her bonnet again, and hurried off to get the
medicine.
This exhausted one-half, at least, of her store—but that
was nothing. She came back and placed it on the table,
and taking her basket repaired to market—poor little
housekeeper!—to get the material for a light soup. This
she soon accomplished, and turned again towards home.
-- 046 --
[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
She had just passed the famous sign of “Schminky,
Grocer,” when she recollected Uncle Joe's fondness for
pepper—black pepper—in his soup, and also that she had
not a spoonful of salt in the house. She therefore
turned back and went into the store.
The portly proprietor was visible behind the counter,
resplendent in his fine uniform of Captain of the “Yager”
company of German volunteers; and, indeed, so well
known was this office, that we have almost committed a
solecism in (American) good manners by speaking of him
in any other way than as Captain Schminky—which we
shall do in future. Captain Schminky, then, was behind
the counter tying up a pound of candles, and he delivered
them to his customer as Ellie entered.
“Well now, young one, vat is it?” asked Captain
Schminky, in a strong fatherland accent.
“I want a little pepper and salt, if you please, sir,”
said Ellie, “a very little, as little as you can sell, if you
please. Uncle Joe is sick, and—”
“Zalt—you want zalt, ch?” said Captain Schminky,
“you want pepper, eh?”
“A little if you please, sir.”
“For your uncle?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He 's zick?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Goot.”
And having uttered this somewhat ambiguous monosyllable,
Captain Schminky with one hand seized the salt,
with the other the pepper, and emptied a good large pile
-- 047 --
[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
of each into a sheet of brown paper. Then for fear they
would mix, he laid a slice of cheese and some crackers
between them, and bundling them up, rolled the package
to Ellie.
“Oh, sir,” she said “I 'm afraid that is too much. I
can't pay for—”
“Bay!—I don't want noting—ton't pother me.”
And bluff Captain Schminky emerged into the shop,
and turning his back on Ellie, abandoned the store to his
clerk.
Ellie picked up her bundle, and, full of thanks and
gratitude, went out. Captain Schminky was there, reconnoitring
the street—his hand upon his sword.
“I zay,” he said, “you know Zam Peau?”
“Sam? Oh, yes, sir.”
“Ough; you ze 'im when las'?”
“I saw him yesterday.”
“You ze 'im 'bout here to-day?”
“No, sir, not to-day.”
“Ough! tam Zam Peau!”
And having uttered this objurgation, Captain Schminky,
with his hand on his sword hilt, took his way proudly
down the street.
Ellie smiled and went towards home, not thinking of the
chill wind which cut through her thin dress—but full of
the subject of the soup
She soon prepared it, and was delighted to see that the
invalid enjoyed it—he declared, indeed, that he never
could have touched it without the pepper. The faculty
may differ upon the advisability of pepper, but we incline
-- 048 --
[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
to think that Ellie was in the right. She watched the
invalid as he eat, with a satisfaction which gave him a
new appetite; and when he was done, ran and took the
plate, and smoothed his pillow, and saw him turn his face
away looking much better. She and Charley then ate
some of the cheese and crackers.
Charley was slowly coming to the conviction—for Charley
was a good boy at bottom—that he ought to do something
to help his uncle and sister. He now introduced
the subject, forlornly munching his cheese, and talking in a
whisper.
“I say, sister, I kin sell some papers, I think,” he said.
“Papers, Charley?”
“Yes, newspapers.”
Ellie reflected.
“Littler boys 'an me kin,” continued Charley, munching,
“and I 'm goin' to try.”
“How will you get them, Charley—who will tell you
how?”
“I know. I ain't goin' to do like that ugly Jim, that
takes 'em from the doors and sells 'em.”
“Oh, Charley! I hope not! That would be stealing.”
Charley assented to this and continued:
“Sam will show me how;—must I ask him?”
Ellie pondered, and at last replied:
“Yes, Charley, if you think you can do it. Sam is
quite honest, I think, and I know he will not mislead a
child like you. Yes, Charley,” continued the child, “I
think you have smartness enough to do it very well; but
-- 049 --
[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
your feet will be terribly cold, and you can't wear my
shoes.”
But Charley had his pride thoroughly aroused, and
declared that he didn't care for the cold; and he was
going off to see Sam at once. Ellie buttoned up his coat
and kissed him, and the juvenile newsboy set forth upon
his search.
He returned in an hour with a bright look, and said he
had seen Sam on the wharf, and he had promised to take
him and “interduce” him on the next morning; and full
of his new ambition, Charley became dignified and
affectionate.
So the day drew on and night came, and passed pretty
much as before. Uncle Joe was still hot with fever, but
he seemed more composed, and Ellie poured out her
whole little heart in prayer for him.
Charley disappeared early, and came back two or
three hours afterwards somewhat down-hearted, but still
manful. He had made a few coppers, but evidently
doubted seriously about his new profession. He was to
go on the next morning, however, and meanwhile consoled
himself with counting his coppers—after which he
dutifully deposited them in his sister's lap.
During his absence Ellie had gone out and bargained
with a neighbour for a small portion of wood, and this
exhausted the whole of her money. But they now had
enough for two days at least, and the child began to cast
about her for ways and means again.
She recollected that Miss Incledon had said to the
gentleman with whom she held that singular conversation,
-- 050 -- p506-055
[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]
that she wished her, Ellie, to remain in order to see
about some collars; and now this occurred to her as an
opportunity to obtain some more work, if Mrs. Brown
should have none to give her.
She accordingly took her bonnet, and cautioning Charley
not to leave her uncle, who was dozing, set forth
toward Miss Incledon's. On the way she stopped and
explained what she had done to good Mrs. Brown, who
fully approved of it, and was sorry she had no more work
at the moment.
So Ellie thanked her for her kind words, and curtseying,
continued her way toward the house of the young
lady.
CHAPTER VIII. A GENTLEMAN OF FASHION AND AN ECCENTRIC.
The child knocked timidly at the door, and it was
some time before she could make herself heard. At last,
however, the portly servant appeared, and with a patronizing
air, demanded her business.
She wished to see Miss Silvia, she said timidly; whereupon
the servant said Miss Silvia had a visitor, but he
would tell her—which was attributable to the fact that
he had standing orders to suit such cases.
“Ask her to sit in the hall a moment,” Ellie heard.
And accordingly the child came in and sat down. At
the end of ten minutes the parlor door opened, and a
-- 051 --
[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]
man of twenty-five or six, apparently, came out smiling.
He was tall, slender, and graceful—wore the most
fashionable costume—and carried his glossy hat jauntily
in his hand; but Ellie observed that beneath this
smiling and gay exterior, there was an ill-concealed
expression of weariness and recklessness, which made it
anything but pleasant to dwell upon the visitor's countenance.
He was undeniably handsome, it is true, and his light
brown hair was fine and curling; but his complexion was
pale or rather sallow, and under his eyes were those
discolored semicircles which denote a dissipated habit of
living. A close observer would have found at once in
this man all the characteristics of the fast liver—the
frequenter of bar-rooms and gaming-houses—and something
of this was apparent even to the child.
As we have said, the visitor was smiling, and, behind
him, the face of Miss Incledon was as smiling as his
own.
“Oh, bye-the-bye, I quite forgot to thank you for
restoring this,” he said, pointing to his straw-colored kid
glove. “Thanks, charming señora, and adieu!”
With which words the speaker walked out followed by
the eyes of the young lady, who seemed scarcely to be
aware of the presence of Ellie.
“If you please, ma'am,” the child began after a
moment.
“Oh yes! you are here, are you?—they told me a girl,
and I might have known—”
A shadow passed over the dark handsome face as she
-- 052 --
[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]
spoke—and it was plain that she was thinking of the
scene at which Ellie had been present.
“What do you wish to-day?” she said, indifferently.
“You said, ma'am—I thought you said,” Ellie began
timidly, “you had some collars—”
“To work?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“So I have, and I suppose you wish to do them?”
“If you please, ma'am.”
“You may—I have no objection; indeed your work is
very good, child; but they are not ready to-day. If you
will call next week I will have them for you.”
And full of her own thoughts the careless young lady
disappeared up the staircase.
Ellie turned away sorrowfully, and descended to the
street. It was not until she reached the cold pavement
that she fully realized the important character of her disappointment.
Work was bread—medicine for her uncle—
fuel to ward off freezing. Want of work was hunger and
cold—not for herself and Charley only, but for him too,
her poor, sick uncle, stretched on his bed, and more powerless
far than herself, a little child.
The thought sent a pang through the child's heart, and
unconsciously her head drooped, and she went along crying
silently and thinking of him.
While thus absorbed in her thoughts, and crying bitterly—
she could not help it, though she tried often—Ellie
felt a kind hand upon her shoulder, and looking up, saw
a graceful looking man, with short brown hair, a smiling
-- 053 --
[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
face, and very fashionably clad, who was looking at her
intently.
“Well, little girl,” said this gentleman, who appeared
to be about twenty-five or thirty years old, and to have
thought and observed much in that time—“what are you
crying about, pray?”
“Oh, nothing, sir!” said Ellie, shrinking from the very
thought of begging.
“Nothing, indeed! Nothing don't make people cry,”
said the gentleman. “Come, little one, how is it?”
Ellie was touched by the frank kindness of the tone, and
gave him a grateful look through her tears; but she
remained quite obdurate upon the subject of her crying
and her disappointment.
“You are a strange child,” her companion said, “and
so, that is all. If you won't tell me, you won't—but I
know you are not a beggar, though you ought to have
more clothes. Come, now, I'm rich to-day—and eccentric
always—I 'll treat you to a shawl!”
Ellie cried more than ever from gratitude at this kindness,
but shook her head. Poor as they had been they
had never descended to begging, and Ellie could not bear
the idea, for all the cold.
“You are very good, and I am very grateful,” she said,
with a soft look, “and if you will let me say it, sir, God
will bless you for your goodness to a poor child like me.
But I do not want the shawl, sir—I was not crying
for myself.”
And Ellie moved away. Before she knew it she felt
something in her hand, and heard the stranger say:
-- 054 --
[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
“There 's all the silver I have—you shall take it, little
one—and my name. If you can read, and I think your
face says you can, you will know where to find me if you
want a friend. Good bye.”
With these words the stranger called to a gentleman on
the opposite side of the street, and crossed over; after
which he and his friend disappeared.
Ellie looked at the money—it was three-quarters of a
dollar—then at the card. Upon it was engraved the name,
“E. Sansoucy,” with the address, which was not far from
Mrs. Brown's. For a moment Ellie hesitated, doubting
whether she should not go and return the money, so great
was her repugnance to accepting charity.
But she thought of her uncle; of the comforts which
the money would buy for him; and her scruples yielded.
“Oh, it is not for myself,” she murmured, “and it will
be needed to-morrow.” And so Ellie's last scruples were
overcome, and she returned homeward, full of gratitude
to God, to whom it was this child's constant habit to
return thanks for everything.
She had not forgotten the kind face, however, and she
carefully placed the card in her pocket.
-- 055 -- p506-060
CHAPTER IX. A BRACE OF WORTHIES.
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
There is a strange microcosm around us as we saunter
or press on, day after day, which few even pause to think
of;—the streets of the city. Singular and notable contrasts!
ever being presented, and which are dulled by
use and repetition, until nothing attracts the attention!
Yet surely the curious observer of the traits of human
life finds much to strike him in this common highway,
where the young and the old, the rich and the poor, the
happy and the miserable, jostle each other in the great
race of life—common in nothing but in this, that all are
hastening, consciously or unconsciously, to a fixed and
certain goal, where there is no respect of persons.
Strange world of streets, and full of mysteries and concealments
close enough to puzzle any Diogenes! It is
true that some of these aspects are obvious, as the contrast
is striking. The man who jogs your elbow carries
under his arm a little coffin, which will soon receive all
that remains of some dear child, and, covered with sweet
flowers, descend into that holy earth where Christ laid
down. And as the emblem of death passes on, you find
yourself bespattered by the gay and merry horses which
whirl onward some bright wedding party, decked out
with white favors, going to a merry bridal festival.
These contrasts are most obvious—but others are less
marked.
You do not know that the courteous gentleman who
-- 056 --
[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
smiles as he begs your pardon for a momentary contact
with your shoulder, carries a forged check safe in his
pocket-book:—you do not know that the smooth wayfarer
has crime and assassination in his heart:—you do
not perceive the weary frown on the brow of Dives as he
rolls by in his splendid coach, or that the representative
of Lazarus on the curb-stone, who begs for a penny, has
a little fortune at home which greatly overweighs your
own. So they pass on—those strange actors on the
smiling streets—the merry and miserable, the pure and
depraved, the old and young, and great and small, and
sick and healthy—all common in this one thing only,
that they are but one great variegated procession to a
fearful ceremony in the distance.
Thus it happened that the pure child whose struggles
with adverse things we are trying to depict, passed close
to two men without knowing it—two men as different in
character from herself as possible.
One of these men was the gay Mr. Fantish whom she
had met some time before at Miss Incledon's; the other
was his father.
Mr. Fantish, senior, was a disagreeable-looking man,
of tall stature, coarse features, and rough frowning manner.
He was richly dressed, but scarcely looked the
gentleman. It requires a long time to make a gentleman,
and it is necessary to begin at the cradle. It was obvious
that this beginning had been deferred in the case of Mr.
Fantish, senior; and his aspirations, if he had any in that
particular direction, had turned out a failure.
-- 057 --
[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
As Ellie passed them, they had just met, and Mr.
Fantish, senior, was saying,
“Why have you not been to see me, Ashell?”
“Oh, I've been taken up with a thousand botherations,”
replied Mr. Ashell Fantish, twirling his cane.
“With a run on the cards, eh?” asked his father,
laughing.
“No,” was the reply; “I'm tired of cards. I really
begin to think that I have no luck, and am sick of
them.”
“I am glad of it—you will find the truth of my advice
at last. If you continue to play as recklessly as you did,
you will quite run through with the country property left
you by your mother.”
“And have to fall back on my respected parent, eh?”
said Mr. Ashell Fantish, with careless jocularity; “thank
you, I have no idea of turning out a prodigal son. I am
afraid the fatted calf would be wanting on my return.”
The tone of these words seemed to annoy the worthy
Fantish, senior, who evidently admired and attached no
slight pride to his handsome and fashionable son. We
are bound to say in explanation of this apparently anomalous
fact, that this was probably the sole weakness of the
worthy, who was not tender in his affections; but this
weakness he had.
Thus when the young gentleman hinted that his reception
with his father, were he penniless, would be anything
but enthusiastic, the elder gentleman's countenance
assumed an expression of annoyance, as we have
said, and he replied:
-- 058 --
[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
“You know very well that I am not a bad father, and
this is not your real belief. I only advise you to take
care, because it is for your own good. There is a double
objection to cards: they cause a man to throw away
money, and they destroy his health with late suppers and
brandy.”
“Very true,” said his companion, carelessly.
“You have given them up?”
“Yes.”
“I am glad of it.”
“And I—I am indifferent about it.”
“You are getting to be terribly weary-looking, Ashell,”
said Mr. Fantish, senior, easting an admiring glance at
his handsome son.
“I look as I feel,” he replied.
“Why are you so?”
“Nothing interests me.”
“Nothing?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
A silence followed these words, and they walked on.
“Try some occupation,” said the senior at last; “this
is not rational.”
“What? Do you mean living as I do, in bachelor
freedom?”
“Yes, if you choose.”
“Hum!”
“Why not get married?”
“Good! there you are at last, my respected parent—
there it is out. You would like me to make a wealthy
match.”
-- 059 --
[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
“I would.”
“To sell myself for money!” added the young man in
a bantering tone.
“Men do it every day.”
“I don't: and there is time enough to change my
opinion, and my modes of action, when I am penniless.”
“You will not be penniless—for you will have my fortune—
that is to say, if you remain a good son,” added the
old man, with an expression of constraint and uneasiness
which was very apparent.
“A good son! Why, am I not?”
“Yes, I don't deny it—and I don't deny, either, that I
am proud of you—though I 'm free to say that I don't
think you have too much affection for me.”
“I trust,” said the young man, in a tone of banter,
“that we are not going to get on the affecting tack. It is
too much for my nerves, and I would rather talk business,
disagreeable as it is.”
The old man seemed, for some reason, to suspect satire
in these words, and said, with some show of irritation:
“Well, suppose my business is disagreeable. I suppose
I am my own master.”
“Yes, sir.”
“This miserable cant, Ashell, of affected puritans! I
know what you allude to: you mean that I am a hard
landlord.”
“No, sir—I was not thinking of anything of the sort.”
“Well, I am, sir, if you do choose to think of it, and
I have some rascally tenants who will be made to pack
immediately, and with very little to take with them.”
-- 060 --
[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]
With which words Mr. Fantish took a memorandum
from his waistcoat pocket, and read it with ill-concealed
satisfaction.
His son glanced at it carelessly, and said as carelessly:
“What ridiculous names—Slink, Lacklitter and Drachenbilt—
that last must be the scion of some great German
family. Well, all that is very interesting, sir, but business
has few charms for me.”
“I know it—you are a butterfly of fashion, while I
work. I do not complain. I suppose,” added the old
man, “you get it from your mother's family.”
“What, sir?” said the young man, turning round.
“Your folly and thoughtlessness, Ashell,” said his
father.
The young man's face colored, and it presented a strange
appearance, for such a decoration seldom appeared upon it.
“My mother was never guilty of folly, sir,” he said
coldly.
“Go on! go on!” said the elder, stung by his son's
tone, “add that her only folly was marrying me!”
“No, sir! I have no desire to exchange taunts with my
father. I am not a model young man, sir, but I know
what my self-respect requires.”
“Your self-respect! You put nothing on the ground
of affection for me.”
“I say nothing, sir—I complain of nothing.”
“No, you do not; but I see the devil in your eye,
which means that I did not treat your mother well.”
“I mean nothing, sir.”
“Well, I didn't! there, sir! now scowl at me! I made
-- 061 --
[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]
a mistake when I married her, I don't mind confessing; for
she was always thrusting her puritanical ideas between me
and the simplest business operation. If I had followed
her advice I would now be in the gutter, instead of rich.
Deny it, if you can, sir!”
“I do not deny it,” said the young man, who had turned
from red to pale.
“And yet you always took her part against me, and I
believe had a conspiracy between you to put me down—or
change me! You might as well have tried to shake Gibraltar,
sir!” said the old man, wrathfully. “Yes, I
remember well how you went on. If you were talking
with your mother and smiling, you would stop on my
entrance, and a cloud would settle on your faces; if I
made a joke about some business matter, there was no
laughter; if I invited you to come to a meeting of the
Board of Brokers, you couldn't—because, forsooth, you
had to drive your mother out.”
“She was delicate and needed it, and you were too
busy—you said you were!” interposed the young man,
with his hand upon his heart.
“Well, suppose I was! Could I be spending my mornings
with your mother, when my affairs were in a critical
position? That is a pretty argument!”
“I argue nothing, sir.”
“You only despise me.”
“No, sir, I do not.”
“Well, sir!—go on in your course, and do as you fancy.
Some day you will repent your disrespect,—yes, sir! don't
-- 062 --
[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]
look at me in that way, as if you scorned the idea of any
respect being due me—”
“I do not, sir.”
“Do as you please, and follow your own course!—and
take sides, if you choose, with your mother yet!—”
He almost stopped as he uttered these terrible words.
“But don't apply to me, sir, while you have a cent in
the world. Don't come to the father you have despised,
and beg!”
“The passers-by will hear you, sir,” said the young man,
pale and gnawing his under-lip.
“What do I care? The passers by are nothing to me,
and I am rich enough—yes, sir, rich enough—to speak
my mind! You think it's very coarse and vulgar, I suppose,
and that it may make your fine acquaintances stare—
but I don't care! I'm rich enough, sir! And, I say
again, don't you come to me until you are on the parish.
Then I will have you—and, mark my word, sir! I will
yet make you like myself, though you so despise me!
You'll yet be proud to be a clerk in my office, and I'll
make you just what you laugh at, and what your mother
dreaded, with her cant—a close, and hard, and perfect
business man! Good morning, sir.”
And overcome by this expression of his long pent up
rage and jealousy, and a thousand conflicting emotions
toward his son, the old man panted, and struck his cane
into the pavement, and went his way, hastily and sternly.
His son stood for a moment looking after him, with a
face paler than ever. Then he nodded his head, and,
gnawing his lips, uttered a grating and affected laugh.
-- 063 -- p506-068
[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]
He was aroused by a voice, loud and hearty, which
said,
“Why Fantish, my boy, what's the matter? You look
decidedly knocked-up.”
“I am,” was the young man's careless reply, “regularly.
Come, and have some brandy with me. I am a
little out of sorts.”
So separated father and son.
CHAPTER X. THE STRENGTH OF A CHILD.
Meanwhile Ellie continued her way, and soon reached
home.
She entered cheerfully, holding the donation of the
eccentric Mr. Sansoucy in her hand, and related all that
had occurred to her uncle.
“He's mighty good,” said Uncle Joe; “but editurs is
mostly good, I think, from my knowledge of 'em. I
reckon they read so much misfortun' in the papers that it
makes 'em soft-hearted. You're a good girl, Ellie, and a
great blessin', and the Lord bless you.”
“Dear uncle, don't make me think that I have done
anything but what is my duty,” said Ellie, earnestly;
“my whole life could not repay your goodness and kindness
to me and Charley. I dearly love to do anything
for you—you know it.”
And Ellie, with a tender smile, smoothed the pillow
-- 064 --
[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]
and made it soft to the fevered head, and then betook
herself to making the fire burn. Charley sat by it
reflecting.
“What are you thinking about, Charley?” said the
child, assuming a light tone. “A penny for your
thoughts.”
“I was thinkin' 'bout God,” said Charley.
“What were you thinkin', Charley?”
“I was thinkin' that the bad people had the best time
in the world—and they have,” said Charley, stoutly; “I
know they have.”
“Oh, no, Charley!”
“I know they have,” reiterated the boy; “they have fine
clothes, and plenty to eat, and good fires, and everything—
tell me they aint easiest!”
“Oh, Charley, Charley!” said the child, earnestly, “it
is not right to feel in that way—or look in that way.
Suppose some people are rich and bad—and I know they
are—they are not happiest. I know we are happier than
a great many bad people.”
“I wish I was rich.”
“Oh, recollect what the Bible says about the rich
people—and how hard it is for them to go to heaven.
You ought not to wish for riches, Charley, but be content,
brother, with what we have.”
“What! with cold, and wantin' somethin' to eat, and
not havin' any clothes hardly.”
“The Savior had not where to lay his head, Charley.”
“Oh, I've heard that, and all I mean to say, sister, is
that nobody don't believe in him.”
-- 065 --
[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]
“Why?”
“Because, I heard you read that about poor people,
and treatin' them well; and we aint treated well.”
“Oh yes, Charley—there are many good people who
give a heap to the poor.”
“They'll git their reward, won't they?” asked
Charley.
“Oh yes.”
“And the others won't git anything o' the sort, will
they?”
“That is not for us to decide, Charley. The Bible
says we must not judge about such things. We have
enough to do to watch ourselves, brother, and we cannot
be too watchful, for we are always committing sin.”
“You ain't.”
“Oh, yes, indeed, indeed, I am!”
And Ellie's face was clouded.
“Well, then, the rich, bad people ain't safe,” said the
boy; “I know that: and I think it is better to be poor,
and like you, 'an rich, 'an like them.”
With which summary of his opinions, Charley was
silent.
“I think Charley's right,” said the faint voice of Uncle
Joe, who had overheard this conversation; “and you're
a blessin', Ellie. The Lord 'll reward you. As for me,
I'm mighty poor and weakly, and bad, and I begin to
think I was laid on my back for my good. I think,
daughter, I'd like to hear that par'ble 'bout the virgins or
something.”
Ellie, with tears of emotion and gratitude in her eyes,
-- 066 --
[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]
took the old Bible from her pocket, where it was always
to be found, and, opening it, read the parable.
“I ain't ready,—I ain't,” said Uncle Joe; the Lord
be marciful. But I'll try to be if I'm out agin; and the
thing that made me think, is you, daughter. Now sit
down, and rest, and I'll try and go to sleep. Good
girl!”
And Uncle Joe turned over, and tried to forget his
fever in sleep.
Ellie soon banished the child-emotion of love and
pride excited by her uncle's words, and betook herself to
her duties of housekeeper.
On the following morning Charley again sought the
office of the paper which he had been introduced to,
Ellie having first prepared a good hot breakfast for him;
and the child remained absent all the morning. He
returned in doleful spirits, and reported that he had not
sold a single paper, and that the stones were so cold, that
his feet were 'most frost-bitten.
Ellie made him sit close to the fire, and looking at him,
observed black stains upon his face. These turned out
to be, according to Charley's explanation, the soil
derived from the newspapers—as he had wiped his face
upon them.
“Your face?” said Ellie.
“My eyes, I mean,” said Charley, his pride all gone.
“I couldn't help cryin'—I couldn't.”
“Poor little brother,” said Ellie, tenderly, taking his
head in her lap, and wiping away the stains. “You
shall not go any more.”
-- 067 --
[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]
And Ellie kissed the child, and smoothed his hair.
“But I oughter,” said Charley; “oh, what an unfort'nate
boy I am.”
“Oh no, Charley, you are only little; and yon can't
make enough to pay for your cold feet. You shan't go
any more.”
And to this Charley was compelled after a-while to
assent.
So the day passed, and the next, and the next; and the
sick man was no better, and Ellie's stock of money was
nearly all spent, for fuel was terribly costly.
The doctor, too, had grown tired of coming, in view of
the slender chances of receiving any fee; and Ellie felt
more than ever that everything rested upon herself. She
saw with anxious fear that only a trifle of her money
remained, and, when that was gone, where should she
procure any more?
Again she determined to go and try to get some work
from Mrs. Brown or Miss Incledon; and this determination
she immediately put in practice.
Mrs. Brown had more “bids” for her work, at the moment,
than she could supply; and Ellie was too proud and
sensitive to beg. She depended upon Miss Incledon.
Alas!
The servant told her rudely that the young lady had
gone to the country for a week, leaving no message of any
kind for anybody, and closed the door in her face.
-- 068 -- p506-073
CHAPTER XI. HOW ELLIE PAWNED THE GIFT OF HER MOTHER.
[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]
It had then come to this!—her last hope was thus gone
from her, and she was left alone to struggle against her
bitter want, and, more than that, the want of her poor,
sick uncle.
For a moment the child's strength seemed to fail her—
a mist passed before her eyes, and from that terrible cloud
a shapeless face, convulsed with horrible laughter, seemed
to hiss out—“Your faith is vain and foolish—listen
to me!”
That thought nerved her once more, and she resolutely
set forward, with a murmured prayer for mercy. Still her
heart was obliged to speak, and, with tears in her eyes, she
murmured faintly:
“Oh, I do not feel right! and I cannot think it is
wrong—though I'm afraid it is! I do not feel right.
There is something wrong in society, as they call it, when
poor persons are suffering for bread, and want to work
and can't!—when the money that is thrown away by others
would keep them from hunger, and sickness, and temptation!
I do not envy the rich, and oh, I would not wish
them to give me their money. But oh! they ought to
remember that, while they are happy, the poor are miserable
for want of work to buy their bread!”
And having uttered this despairing cry against the
falseness of society, the child went on in silence—praying
-- 069 --
[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]
in her heart for resignation, patience, and more faith—
more faith!
By the next morning all her money was gone, and by
the day after all the supplies in the house were exhausted.
There was no fuel—no bread—nothing.
Ellie sat down and looked at her situation, face to face.
She knew that neither Charley nor the sick man could be
of any assistance: indeed, Uncle Joe had been so often
assured by Ellie, in her tones of assumed cheerfulness,
that she could easily supply the wants of the household by
her delicate lace work, that he had ended by believing her,
and yielding everything into her hands. This was, then,
her position. All was for her.
What should she do?
It is nothing for a strong man—full of experience, with
friends, connections, and a thousand expedients—to be
thus thrown in contact with an adverse destiny, and feel
the pressure of misfortune. It is nothing to the athlete,
with his arms full of vigor, his breast rugged with muscle,
his eye clear and steady, to fence, and strike, and wrestle
with the world, as his well-matched enemy. Skill and
strength, and coolness, and experience, are powerful aids,
and not often do these seize and throw the adverse fate.
But for a child—a weak, poor child, without experience,
without strength, without friends or connections who can
aid her—it is another thing! Her arm has no strength,
the breast no vigor—the eye fills with tears instead of
resolution; and misfortune stands before such an one like
a tiger matched against a trembling fawn. Life has many
bitternesses—many savage and remorseless struggles—but
-- 070 --
[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]
surely the grasp of want and sickness on the tender spirit
of a child is, of all things in the wide world, the most
piteous!
Yet this was just the situation of the child, whose days
we are trying to give an account of. The sickness and
want of her uncle was worse than her own would have
been—for she was sick at heart as well; that most terrible
of maladies. Hunger stared her in her face, and her faith
trembled and shook.
It did not give way. By one of those great efforts,
which indicate rare strength of nature, Ellie bowed her
heart, and if she cried, prayed too. And so she was
much calmer, and betook herself again to thought.
Suddenly she recollected that there was something
which might go to the money-lender's still; and rising
quickly, she went into her little closet, and taking her
string containing two or three keys from her pocket,
inserted one of them in a drawer of the old battered pine
affair, which was jammed into the corner.
The lock grated, for it had not been opened for a long
time, and the child drew out the drawer, and took from it
a small bundle, containing the gown of a baby and a
little cap.
Her mother had left her the old set of drawers, and this
long-kept gown, which was her own when she was a baby;
and Ellie did not hesitate as to her right to use it. The
cap was a very handsome one of lace, most probably her
mother's work, and the dress was of good material.
Ellie put on her old bonnet and hastened off to the
money-lender's, who lived on the corner, and kept a small
-- 071 --
[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]
nondescript shop, where the poor were assisted in the
barter of their goods for money.
The man, who was a coarse, low-browed fellow, so far
relaxed as to make a joke upon his wanting baby-clothes;
but attracted by the lace cap, finally agreed to give Ellie
about one-tenth of the value of her package. With this
the child was obliged to be content, though she felt the
bitter injustice. That night the money-lender, who was
in “good standing” in his church, was reading his bible
aloud magisterially to his wife, and he read: “Whoso
shall offend one of these little ones which believe in me, it
were better for him that a millstone were hanged about
his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the
sea.” He read it with an unctuous and rolling voice, as
though to say, “That 's my neighbors, exactly;” after
which he retired with solemn prayer. “Take heed! In
heaven their angels do always behold the face of my
Father.”
So Ellie went back home with another little plank
between her and the bottom. She felt that it came just
in time, for the lowering sky threatened a long and obstinate
storm; and she hastened to expend her little stock of
money to the best advantage. She made some small purchases
at Captain Schminky's; but that gentleman seemed
to be in an adverse humor, and carefully paid himself out
of the coin she offered. Ellie procured a little wood on
her way also, and returned home just as the clouds seemed
about to discharge a torrent of rain.
But they did not. The dark, gloomy sunset went down
-- 072 -- p506-077
[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]
tinged with fire, and night drew on black and cold—but
with no rain.
Ellie lit her last piece of candle, and kindled a small
but cheerful fire, by the assistance of which she made some
tea and toast for her uncle—not paying any attention to
the wild sobs of the blast without.
The sick man drank some tea, and then lay back with
his old faint smile, and closed his eyes; and Ellie sat
down and murmured some talk to Charley.
After a while Uncle Joe began to breathe heavily, and
Ellie knew he was asleep. She fixed Charley comfortably,
read a little, and finding herself faint with sleep, went to
her little bed. Worn out with emotion and walking, the
child soon fell asleep, and the muttering of the storm
slowly died away.
CHAPTER XII. FACE TO FACE WITH HUNGER.
When Ellie rose on the next morning, she found the
ground covered with a deep layer of snow.
The storm had indeed died away; no rain had fallen;
but in its place had come the chill fall of snow, preceding
the full winter.
As the child looked out, her heart sank more than ever
within her, and clasping her hands, she gazed with a
species of dumb agony upon the white, cold, pitiless snow.
That snow was nothing to others than herself, or those
-- 073 --
[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]
like herself. The comfortable merchant, with his great
coat and India-rubber shoes, and warm throat-wrapping,
smiled at it; and, perchance, was not sorry that the price
of coals and wood, and all “produce,” would by its means
go up. The gay youths and maidens looked forth gladly
and saw, in the future, happy sleigh rides, with their
tinkling bells, making such merry music round them as
they flitted on, past laden trees, by streams, and over
bridges, with their much discussed prerogatives of bold
salutes upon the tingling cheek. The children everywhere
looked forth upon the snow—yet in their nightgowns—
and were full of ecstacy at the bright visions of
snow-balling, and a thousand sports, which come in with
the merry, laughing, white and beautiful snow!
Not so did it appear to Ellie; there was nothing merry
in the snow to her—and if any beauty, it resembled that
of the white polar bear, whose velvet fur and graceful
head conceal the coldest and most pitiless cruelty. To
the child the snow storm signified only freezing cold and
the inability to procure the necessaries which her uncle
needed. And so she gazed upon it with a wild look,
which was so piteous in its appeal, so full of fear and
suffering, that any one beholding her would have shed
tears of sympathy, so evident was her agony.
For several minutes Ellie continued to gaze upon the
snow, shivering as she stood, for the room was bitter cold.
Then covering her face with her hands she sank down,
and for a time shook with passionate sobs, which she tried
in vain to check. Oh! what had she done that her merciful
Father in Heaven, should heap this last agony on her
-- 074 --
[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]
head—trying her it seemed so cruelly? Why was she left thus
to struggle alone against all the ills of life—what deadly
sin had she cherished, to draw down upon her head this
cruel, cruel trial?
And, as these thoughts passed through her mind, Ellie's
form shook again, and her brown hair wavered and fell,
but could not hide the flood of tears which streamed down
her cheeks. For some moments she remained thus overcome,
but gradually she grew calmer; and, leaning her
head on the cold, hard window-sill, prayed long and
earnestly.
She rose at last, murmuring, “Thy will be done,” and
drying her eyes, set to work upon her morning preparations.
A small bundle of splinters remained still, which
she had gathered in the street before going to bed on the
evening before, and with these she managed to kindle a
slight fire. She then assisted Charley in dressing, and
brushed his hair—going through all these things with a
forlorn resignation which was most touching.
Uncle Joe soon awoke, and Ellie hastened to his bed-side,
and with a cheerful smile asked him how he felt.
“Pretty well, daughter,” said Uncle Joe, faintly, “why'
seems there's a light! It's snow—snow!”
And a cloud passed over the thin flushed face.
“Oh, that's nothing!” said Ellie, smiling, to hide the
trembling of her lips, “that's nothing, dear uncle, and it
will soon melt and go away. You will be well very soon
now, and you see I am very happy.”
With which words Ellie feigned that she had left something
in her closet, and entering it hastily, burst into tears.
-- 075 --
[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]
Even in the agony of weeping, however, the child suppressed
any sound, and had her cry out in silence. She then dried
her eyes, and trying to smile, came back and set about
her work again. Those tears had sprung from a thought
which suddenly came to her mind, a fact which for a moment
she had forgotten. There was nothing whatever
in the house—not so much as a morsel of bread for breakfast,
or a spoonful of tea.
Ellie's mind was racked with this thought, and she revolved
project after project. Where could she get the
material for breakfast?—that meal once over she would
have time to think. Face to face now with actual material
hunger—with the grim foe Want—she almost found her
energies paralyzed; and felt as though she could ask nothing
better than a painless sleep beneath the pitiless snow
which had disarmed her heart.
But the brave, hopeful nature soon banished such
thoughts, and with a murmured prayer the child put on
her old bonnet and opened the door, and went out, without
any direct project.
It was bitter cold, and the sun, struggling up through
a heavy mist, seemed to be the mere burlesque of an ordinary
sun, so chill and gloomy did it look. Ellie shivered,
and the cold wind penetrated to her very heart, chilling
the life blood in her veins.
Where should she go?
All her neighbors were as poor as herself—or nearly—
and to borrow of them, would almost be robbery, even
though they were willing to lend. The poor help each
-- 076 --
[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]
other, but the morsel which they part with is often taken
from their own mouths.
Ellie stood despairingly upon the threshold thinking
where she should go. Borrow—nay, if necessary, beg—
she must. The only question was, where?
As these thoughts passed through her mind, she saw
the light of a fire shining through the cellar window of
the large dilapidated house which stood nearly opposite
to the cabin which her uncle occupied; and she remembered
that an old negro woman lived there, with whom
she had once or twice exchanged a word in passing. Her
kind face now came to Ellie's memory, and she determined
to go and borrow a little bread and tea of her.
In a minute she had hastened along the street, making
deep marks, as she walked, in the soft snow, and reached
the entrance to the cellar.
She went down the rough steps and knocked. The
voice of the old woman bade her come in, and Ellie opened
the door.
The very sight of the room seemed to revive the child;
and timidly entering, she looked around for a moment with
a sigh, which was not for herself.
If uncle had only that warm, pleasant-looking room!
-- 077 -- p506-082
CHAPTER XIII AUNT PHILLIS.
[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]
In fact the apartment presented a sufficiently marked
contrast to the poor and cold abode in which Joe Lacklitter
lingered out the melancholy days of his fever and
sickness.
A good warm fire was blazing on the hearth, and the
old woman was already up and busy at her ironing, which
she performed upon a large table, at one end of which stood
a tub full of rough linen. Aunt Phillis supported herself
by washing, and she boasted a large and respectable
“connection” who depended upon her. The variety of
garments which now hung upon a “horse” in a corner
would have proved this; and the commingling of ages
and sexes in these garments was almost bewildering.
“Bless de Lord,” said Aunt Phillis, who was a comely
matron of sixty, “why if tain't little Ellie. How come on
dis cold mornin', chile.”
“I am very well, Aunt Phillis,” replied Ellie, “only
Uncle Joe is sick.”
“Sick is he? De Lord! Why he strong as Sampson,
when I see him. Well, well!”
And Aunt Phillis, not forgetting work, tried her iron
to ascertain its amount of heat, and plunged it into the
heart of a prostrate shirt.
Ellie blushed, and hesitated, so great was her repugnance
to what seemed like begging.
-- 078 --
[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]
“I thought I'd come over, Aunt Phillis—and—and—
that is—”
Ellie's voice died in her throat, and her eyes filled with
tears.
Aunt Phillis paused in her work, and looked at the
child.
“What, cryin' chile?” she said.
“Oh, no! I'm not crying,” said Ellie, with the tears
running down her cheeks; “only Uncle Joe is sick, and—
and—we have nothing in the house,—and—I thought
if you would—lend me a little tea—”
Ellie stopped, overcome by the effort which these few
words had cost her, and, bending down, cried from
emotion and weakness.
“Tea!” said Aunt Phillis: “you want a little tea?”
“Just a little, if you please,” sobbed Ellie.
“Jest as much as you choose, an' more too,” said
Aunt Phillis, laying down her iron heartily; “somethin''
sides, too.”
And going to her cupboard, she brought out an old
battered teapot, and some bread and cold ham.
“There chile!” she said; “you jest take whatever you
want: and don't you mind 'bout 'turnin' of it tell you's
ready.”
Ellie looked gratefully at the kind, good face, and that
face was really exceedingly handsome at the moment, for
it was full of warmth and affection.
“Jest take what you want, I tell you,” said Aunt
Phillis, “an' welcome.”
Ellie thanked her gratefully, and poured some tea and
-- 079 --
[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]
sugar into a paper. Then she took some bread, and being
pressed by Aunt Phillis, added a little bit of ham.
Refusing to take more, the child then thanked her warmly
again, and returned home.
Uncle Joe was looking for her, and she assumed her
cheerful smile, and soon made some tea, and prepared
breakfast. The invalid ate a small portion of the ham,
the rest being consumed by Charley; and thus the day
commenced.
But the fuel: that was now the child's thought. It
was absolutely necessary that the room should not be
without fire, and where to procure the smallest stick of
wood, Ellie could not think. The snow had covered up
every chance bit and chip; and she well knew that she
could not hope for anything there. Where should she
go?
As the fire gradually dwindled down, the child's
anxiety became greater and greater; and when Charley
shivered and drew nearer, and Uncle Joe drew the cover
faintly over his head, Ellie's eyes filled for the third time
that morning with tears. She felt, too, that this nervous
feeling arose from her weakness, and the anxiety she had
undergone for days, and the still darker prospect opened
upon her, of her own sickness—the very thought of which
made her shudder.
She opened her Bible, and looked at it wildly. Her
eyes fell upon what she had often read before, but it had
never impressed her so wondrously—with such profound
reality. “Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy
laden, and I will give you rest.... for I am meek
-- 080 --
[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]
and lowly in heart, and ye shall find rest unto your
souls.”
To the mind of the child, agitated and rendered nervously
sensitive to emotion, it seemed that He who
uttered those words stood before her, with a sad smile of
infinite love and pity on his countenance; and that he
bent towards her, holding out his arms with unspeakable
tenderness and goodness. So carried away was the
child by this vision, that the Bible fell from her hand,
and sinking upon her knees, she prayed with clasped
hands and moist eyes raised toward heaven; and so, slowly
felt her fear and nervous tremor leave her; and rose up
with a warmth at her heart which melted every fear, and
banished all anxiety. She felt around her that arm which
is stronger than life or death, than things present or
things to come.
She picked up her Bible, and as she did so, the card
given her by the stranger, which had caught in its leaves,
fell on the floor. Ellie looked at it for a moment
strangely, took it up, and went and put on her bonnet.
She approached the bed, with her sweet smile, and
said:
“I'm going to run out for half-an-hour, uncle. Cover
up well, and I'll soon be back. Charley will stay with you.”
And not waiting for a reply, the child hastened out,
and set forward resolutely, toward the office of Mr. Sansoucy,
who had told her to call on him when she wanted
a friend. That time had come, and repressing the blush
of shame which dyed her cheek as she thought of her
errand, the child hastened on.
-- 081 -- p506-086
CHAPTER XIV. HOW ELLIE MET WITH HER FRIEND LUCIA.
[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]
Ellie hastened on, wrapping her cold hands in her
thin apron, and bending down her head to avoid the
freezing wind which swept over the snow, and around the
corners, and flapped the shutters angrily.
She hastened on, and after a long walk, came to the
street described on the card. The address needed not to
be scanned again; it was engraved on her memory, and
she soon found herself at the house. She ascended a
flight of stairs, then another, and finally came to a door
upon which a plate with the name “E. Sansoucy,” was
affixed.
She knocked timidly, but no reply was given; and
unconsciously the child turned the knob; the door was
locked—Mr. Sansoucy was not within!
For a moment Ellie felt weak and faint, and a cloud
seemed to pass before her eyes, from which the name engraved
upon the plate gleamed pitilessly, as though every
letter were a goblin, and felt an irrepressible desire to laugh
at her and defy her. Her knees bent beneath her, and
sinking down upon the steps, she covered her face and
burst into tears of very weakness and despair.
Oh, to see her last hope pass from her—to be met thus
by an obstinate and pitiless fate—to feel that her struggles
were in vain, her hopes but ashes, her future and the future
of her uncle, delivered into the hands of those grim
jailors, Hunger and Despair! To feel that nothing was
-- 082 --
[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]
now left—that there was no hope—that even God seemed
to have deserted her, and turned away his face! That
was the cruel pang which tore her heart—she could endure
all but that! Nothing was spared her, and under this
last blow, her heart bent down, faint and sick and ready
to abandon any further struggle.
The child remained thus for some moments silent and
motionless in the presence of her destiny—battling with
it, and crying out in her heart for some poor crumb of
comfort. With a sort of terror at her doubts she murmured
a passionate prayer, and rose up, wringing her hands
and sobbing.
Where should she go—what should she do? But one
hope was left—work from Mrs. Brown or Miss Incledon,
and speedy work; work, at which she might toil day and
night, wearing her fingers away, but accomplishing it.
She roused herself and set forward again with the resignation
of despair.
Mrs. Brown's shop was shut. As her eyes fell upon
the cold, cruel door, the child felt her throat contract; and
her breast shook. One hope alone was left then—Miss
Incledon, who possibly might have returned. She set
forward as rapidly as she could towards the house.
As she was going along thus, Ellie suddenly found herself
close to a young girl, who seemed to be wandering
forlornly about without any settled object. She was a
child of twelve or thirteen, with dark hair, dark eyes,
and the imperceptible tinge of brown which characterizes
the inhabitants of southern lands. Another glance told
that her extraction was Italian—for seldom do the women
-- 083 --
[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]
of northern countries possess the large liquid eyes which
looked out, full of sadness, from the face of this child.
She was miserably clad, and had in her countenance a
species of dumb despair, which told a tale of want not to
be misunderstood.
“Oh, Lucia!” said Ellie, with a feeling of despairing
comfort at seeing a familiar and friendly face, “I am so
glad to see you, though you do not look well. Where are
you going?
“Nowhere,” said Lucia, in a voice of melancholy sweetness,
and with an Italian accent, “I was just wandering,
Ellie.”
And Lucia mechanically pressed the child's hand, and
walked on beside her.
“I was so sorry—so much grieved—to hear”—faltered
Ellie, endeavoring not to excite her companion's feelings,
“to hear of your loss, Lucia. Indeed, I was coming to
you, but—but—Uncle Joe is very sick.”
And Ellie suppressed a sob which threatened to drown
her voice.
“Yes,” said Lucia with a sort of mechanical movement
of her head, and without shedding any tears, or exhibiting
other signs of emotion, “Yes, I am alone now—alone in
the world.”
“Oh, not alone!” said Ellie, moved by the sad, sweet
face, “we are not alone! You have lost your earthly
father, but your Father in heaven remains!”
Lucia looked at her companion with a puzzled expression:
then with the same mechanical movement of her
head, said,
-- 084 --
[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]
“You mean God?”
“Oh, yes!”
“I do not believe in God,” said the child, calmly.
“Not believe in him!”
“No!”
“Oh, Lucia!”
“How can I!” said the child, with a sort of momentary
fire in her dark eyes, which, however, soon disappeared, as
she went on speaking, “I have thought a great deal about
a God, and I have tried to believe that there was one, who
would love me, Ellie. But I do not believe there is—no
there is not—I do not believe it,” she added, calmly, again.
Ellie looked at her friend for some moments with mute
grief, as though she had wholly forgotten her own troubles
in presence of this distressing incredulity.
“Oh, Lucia!” she said, “you make me feel so badly
by your unbelief. I have enough to distress me already,
and you ought not to add to it. Not believe in God!”
said the child, with a sort of incredulous pity, “oh,
Lucia! how unhappy you must be!”
“I am!” said the child. “I am very unhappy.”
“Oh! but trust in God!”
“I cannot.”
“But try, Lucia! pray for faith, and submission, and
pardon—pray to Him, and He will not turn away!”
“How can I? I do not believe in him,” added the
child, obstinately. “If there is a God, he has made me
wretched!” she cried, with despairing energy. “All that
I love in the world is gone. I am sick of life!”
A hectic flush covered the wan cheek, and the child was
-- 085 --
[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]
silent. Ellie had this new burthen to bear, and only those
with the warm feelings which the child possessed can comprehend
the pain she felt at hearing all that she clung to
and leaned upon, thus set at defiance and rejected.
“Oh, Lucia! Lucia! how unhappy you make me!”
she cried, “how my heart bleeds for you! How miserable
you must be not to put any trust in God, or the Saviour
who died for us. You are wretched, you say, and that
makes you doubt God. But oh! it is wrong!—it is
wrong! This world is not a place for happiness only, but
God means we should be tried. Our faith would be
nothing if we were always happy, and in the last words
Jesus said to his disciples, he told them that they should
suffer all sorts of misfortunes. Oh, pain, and sickness,
and misery, are not driven away by God, for they often
make us better. Jesus suffered all these, and died for us
on the cross;—and after all this, you say God has no love
for us!”
The child's face was beautiful as she uttered these
words, and such was the kindness and earnest tenderness
of her voice, that the frozen heart began to melt, and the
child Lucia's despair to give way to tears—that blessed
rain, which waters the dry and brittle heart, and keeps it
from breaking with its load of anguish.
“God loved us so that he gave his only son for us,”
said Ellie, earnestly, “and Jesus suffered more than we
can ever suffer. But he did not doubt God; he said,
`Father, thy will be done,' even when he was drinking the
bitter cup of agony, the bible says. He suffered pain and
sorrow—he was beaten, and bruised, and crucified. He
-- 086 --
[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]
came to save us, poor, sick-hearted ones, and he loved us
so dearly that he gave his life for us. Oh, he will never
desert us if we trust in Him!”
“If I could only believe it!—if I could only believe
it!” murmured the child, bending down her head.
“Pray to him, Lucia, and you will—indeed you will.
He offers his love to all—He tells all that will, to come
and take the water of life freely—no matter how poor, and
wicked, and unhappy they are. It is offered to all; and
if you are poor, and hungry, and sick, he will love and
pity you all the more.”
The child's head drooped lower, and the frozen heart
began to beat. There was such tenderness in Ellie's voice
that it penetrated the crust of misery and despair, and
shone in the poor bruised heart like a heavenly light.
Ellie saw that her friend was not so unhappy, and said:
“Do not think so any more, Lucia, please. Indeed it
is wrong—oh, indeed it is! It is not the grand and the
happy only who are called—it is the poor and miserable
too; and they have more need of God's protection. I am
not saying what I do not believe—for oh! Lucia, I am
not happy—that is, I have so much to make me unhappy.
Uncle Joe is sick, and we have nothing to eat, and I do
not know what is to become of us,” faltered Ellie, “but I
trust in God. I know that he will not desert me—oh,
no! no! He will never desert me, if I put my faith and
trust in Him! Oh, Lucia!” added the child, putting her
arm tenderly round her companion's neck and crying, “do
not think He will desert us because we are poor and
unhappy! He came to suffer for us—for me and you—
-- 087 -- p506-092
[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]
and he has promised never to desert us if we love him and
give him our hearts, and be his little children!”
And Ellie leaned her head upon the child's shoulder,
and sobbed and cried, and in her heart prayed for her.
CHAPTER XV. THE RICH DO NOT DESPISE THE POOR; THEY ONLY KNOW NOTHING ABOUT THEM.
There are tones of the voice which cannot be resisted—
looks of love and tenderness which the most obdurate
heart finds itself unable to withstand. The voice of Ellie,
as she uttered the words we have repeated, went to the
poor frozen heart—and its dull current leaped.
Lucia could not resist the child's love and tenderness,
and tears: her poor heart melted, her despair gave way;
she seemed to return to life again as the voice of Ellie
sounded in the cold and vacant chambers of her soul.
She had still a friend who loved her—she began to feel
that she had, more than all, a supreme, heavenly Friend;
and overcome by the warm flood of emotion, excited by
the words of the child, she leaned upon Ellie's shoulder,
and, sobbing passionately, said:
“Oh, Ellie, you are so good and kind! You have
made me hope again, and God will bless you for thinking
of me in your own misfortune and distress. I was very
unhappy, but you have made me almost happy. Oh,
pray for me, and ask God to take pity on me, and show
-- 088 --
[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]
me how I can forget my wretchedness, and put my trust
in him, for I am very poor and miserable!”
Ellie replied tenderly to these piteous words, and they
passed on, talking earnestly, and pouring out their hearts
to each other, unreservedly and freely. It was a singular
spectacle, these two mere children thus threading their
way through the crowd of wayfarers who passed them by
with careless indifference, or with a laugh, when the tears
in their eyes were descried. Ellie had spoken to Lucia
at a more critical time than she knew or imagined. Her
thoughts had taken an unhealthy direction, and with the
cold self-possession of the miserable and desperate, she
begun to think of suicide. Why should she live, she had
thought, when life seemed to promise nothing but wretchedness
and agony;—when the grim spectre, Want,
already waited to clutch her,—when she had not one
object to cling to, not one thing or person to regret; not
one tie to bind her to a life full of darkness and suffering?
Her father was dead—she had no friends, she thought:
why not set forth upon that voyage which should lead
her to a stranger country still?
The child's reflections had brought her to this point,
when the voice of Ellie roused her from her abstraction,
and caused her to fix her cold and vacant eyes upon the
real world around her. As we have seen, she answered
coldly to the words of Ellie; but little as those words
convinced her of the ingratitude and sin she was committing
by banishing all hope, and contemplating a great
crime, still the tones of Ellie's voice were not to be mistaken.
The tenderness and pity of the child fell upon
-- 089 --
[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]
her lacerated heart like balm, her eyes filled with tears,
and, leaning upon the shoulder of Ellie, she had wept for
the first time since her loss.
“Oh, how good you are, Ellie, and how wretched I
am!” she cried; “Oh! if I could believe in God as you
do, and trust to him, I might wish to live; for when you
came, I was thinking that the cold water would end all
my wretchedness. Speak to me, again, Ellie! tell me
that I am not lost! Oh, I am so wretched!”
And the girl sobbed and moaned, and wept. Ellie
forgot her own griefs and anxieties, and thinking, with a
shudder, that the same idea had passed through her own
mind in the morning, applied herself earnestly to the task
of inspiring hope in the bosom of her despairing friend.
Lucia listened sadly, but more tranquilly than before, and
once or twice, a sad, wan smile—one of those smiles
which only the faces of the unhappy wear—flitted over
her countenance.
They went on talking thus until they reached Miss
Incledon's, where Ellie stopped; telling her friend her
errand, Lucia said she would return home then, and
made Ellie promise to come and see her in her old room,
if she could that evening. Thus they parted, and Ellie
ascended the broad steps and knocked, as Lucia disappeared
in the ever-moving throng.
Again the child had passed from that cold, bleak world
of the streets, where the tide of life flows on over the poor
and unhappy, to the abode of warmth, and domestic comfort
and repose; and again her sad eyes slowly and calmly
made the circuit of the handsome hall, with its rich
-- 090 --
[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]
hatstand, and beautiful oil-cloth, and variegated lamp, pendent
from the white ceiling.
Who has ever succeeded in penetrating the thoughts of
the poor and unfortunate, when these things are thrown
before them—when the weak heart is prompted to exclaim,
“Your luxury robs me of my bread—your blazing fires
from morn 'till midnight, make me freeze in my cold
hovel!” Who has ever dissected the mind of one of the
world's unfortunates, thus face to face with wealth and
comfort, forever denied to them, however passionately
yearned for? But we may imagine their feelings:—and
as there are doubtless those who bitterly envy their fortunate
possessors, and rail at Providence, and the world; let
us hope there are also others who feel that wealth and
comfort are but circumstances of position; that the true
heart, the kindly spirit, the love and obedience, of that
heart, are all that should be valued, and looked to, in the
short pilgrimage of Life.
Thus it is not too much to say that Ellie envied none
of these things; and if the thought occurred to her that
her uncle would be rendered happy by a thousandth part
of all this comfort—still her heart was quite free from
envy, and she had no bitterness.
Ellie was still looking down when Miss Incledon descended
and said, carelessly,
“Oh, it is you, is it?”
“Yes, ma'am,” said the child.
“I promised you some work, did I not?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“I am sorry, but I have so much to attend to, that I
-- 091 -- p506-096
[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]
have not thought of it. Come up to-morrow or next day,
and I will give you a collar to do—and if it suits me, I
will pay you well. The collar will take you a week's hard
work; but if it pleases me I will be as generous as I can,”
added Miss Incledon, as she ran up stairs, without waiting
for Ellie's reply.
And that was all. To the young lady, full of her possessing
thoughts, Ellie was simply a girl who wished to
work—not a child fainting and in despair for the want of
nourishment. Thoughtless and inexperienced in the condition
of the poor, it never occurred to her, that the child
might need, actually want, a portion of the money for her
work: and she no more realized anything of this than she
realized the condition of any barbarous tribe of Tartary
or Caucasus. So true is it, as we have said—that the
rich do not despise the poor—they only know nothing about
them.
CHAPTER XVI. HOW MR. SANSOUCY CHEATED THE WIND AND THE COLD.
The child had spent so much time in her different visits—
to the office of Mr. Sansoucy, to Mrs. Brown's, and to Miss
Incledon's—with the incident of the meeting with Lucia,
added—that when she left the house, with a hopeless sob,
the afternoon was drawing on, and the day rapidly giving
way, to night.
With dumb lips, but a despairing cry in her heart, she
-- 092 --
[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]
placed her faint feet once more on the freezing pavement,
and tottered on again as before. All hope seemed to have
left her; in her bosom her weak heart seemed to fail and
die; a cloud passed before her eyes, and the passing flood
of wayfarers seemed to be a part of some great phantasmagoria,
which was playing there before her. Faint for
want of food, for she had scarcely touched anything in the
morning—given over nearly to utter despair, to think that
her uncle and little brother were suffering for want of fire,
and actual bread—her weak feet scarcely rose from the
pavement, her knees bent beneath her, and the cold pitiless
wind struck her to the heart, and laughed at her with
terrible laughter.
Tottering on thus, it seemed that every blast would strike
her to the earth; that every snow-drift would be her deathbed,
that every step would be her last in this world, on
the unpitying earth.
It is a hard thing to feel that life has no hopes, no illusions,
no romance—that the future may be nothing but
weariness—our days passed in a long routine of languid
sickness and regret. But oh! it is harder still to be a
fainting child, and to feel that society ignores you; to be
a poor child, with pain, and suffering, and hunger for the
whole dark future; to know that the hoarse dogs of winter
will soon tear you down, and hurl you on some bank
of snow to die, like an animal, of cold, and wretchedness,
and want. Let a poor writer utter from the depth of his
heart the irrepressible conviction that the state of things
which generates this evil is false and terrible, that society
is deeply culpable for permitting this blot upon her
-- 093 --
[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]
escutcheon—that one day God will point to these dying
ones, and say, “They were my mother and my brethren,
and ye visited them not, nor aided them, nor took any pity
on them!” For if anything is true, this is true, that
raising up the fainting head of that dying unfortunate,
you hold upon your breast the brow of Him who died
upon the cross—that passing by upon the other side, you
pass by Him who said to Peter, “Feed my lambs.”
Society—a Christian society—let it always be repeated—
takes upon itself a frightful, an enormous responsibility,
in ignoring, in not relieving, all this suffering.
Fainter and fainter the child became as she walked on,
and the movement of her feet was rather mechanical than
otherwise—for she knew not whither she was going.
Colder and colder her heart began to feel, and every blast
of the chill and pitiless wind swept over her like a sharp
steel blade severing her flesh, and driving back to its
inmost retreat the subtle and failing principle of existence.
Still she tottered on, looking with dim, faint eyes upon
the objects around her. An irrepressible unmbness began
to invade her limbs, and she finally fell, rather than sat,
upon a door-step, sheltered from the wind by a projection
of the building.
She leaned her head upon her knees, and cowered thus
from the freezing wind, and tried to pray, as though she
felt that earth was passing from her. But her faculties
were confused, and she scarcely knew her situation. In
another hour she would have sunk from exhaustion, and
been “one more unfortunate” for the avid daily press—but
her end was not to be then.
-- 094 --
[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]
She was suddenly aroused by a cheering and hopeful
voice, and a heavy hand was laid upon her shoulder—a
heavy and kindly hand.
“Why, my acquaintance of the other day!” exclaimed
Mr. Sansoucy, “miraculously turned up here at my
door-sill!”
And so indeed it was. By a sort of instinct Ellie had
felt that she ought to go and find if Mr. Sansoucy had
returned—and this instinct had guided her wandering
feet until she sank down at his door, too weak to ascend,
and forgetful of her errand.
“Why, you are not asleep, little one!—that is not possible!”
cried Mr. Sansoucy, drawing his cloak around him,
“why, you will freeze. Come up!”
With great difficulty, Ellie, only half aroused from her
death stupor, ascended the stairs; and inserting a key in
the lock of the door bearing the name, “E. Sansoucy,”
her conductor threw it open, and inducted her into his
sanctum.
There was a bright fire burning, and the apartment,
which seemed to be the antechamber to another, and a
larger one, was evidently the business office of an editor.
The floor was covered with journals, the table and chairs
with volumes, and pens, ink and paper—the latter yellow—
lay ready for use upon the table.
Mr. Sansoucy led Ellie to the fire, and more than once
her weak and wandering feet struck against volumes
hidden beneath journals upon the floor—volumes no doubt
written by cruel and unfeeling authors, who had tried to
trip up honest people's faith in truth, and failing, took
-- 095 -- p506-100
[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]
revenge by putting themselves thus, as stumbling blocks
in the pathway of a child. They finally reached the fire,
however, and Mr. Sansoucy, making Ellie sit in a low,
comfortable chair—which resembled an island in an ocean
of newspapers—said cheerfally and kindly, as he rubbed
her freezing hand:
“Here we are at last, little one, and you 'll get warm.”
The wind and cold were thus cheated of their prey.
CHAPTER XVII. THE EDITOR OF THE “WEEKLY MAMMOTH. ”
There was about Mr. Sansoucy that cheering and
inspiring atmosphere, which often has so powerful an
effect upon those who are thrown into it, before a word
has been spoken, or any sympathy offered. It was a
cordial to Ellie, his simple presence; and again she
experienced that singular and indefinable sensation, which
had seized her upon their first interview, some days before.
It seemed to her that there was some hidden identity
between her own character and that of the person in whose
presence she now was; and his smile invigorated and
restored her more than the cheerful fire—the contact of
his hand raised her drooping spirits more than even the
new-born hope which struggled at her heart.
As the color came back to her cheeks, and her eyes
made the circuit, absently, of the apartment, thence
returning to dwell, full of trust and confidence, upon his
-- 096 --
[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]
face; Mr. Sansoucy smiled again, and relinquishing her
hand, attacked the fire vigorously with the poker.
“Faith! I believe you were going to be frozen down
there, my young friend,” he said: “but now you are
not so badly off, are you? Don't judge of my hospitality
by the stumbles you made in coming to the fire over
these volumes. They are a set of rascals who come to
me to be reviewed in the “Weekly Mammoth”— which I
venture to say, is an animal you know nothing about.'
As he uttered these words, Mr. Sansoucy busied himself
in bringing forth from an escrutoire, a bottle of wine
which he uncorked.
“The Mammoth, little one, is a wild animal,” he continued
pouring out a glassful of the wine, “which is nursed
by `devils' technicaliy so called,—cradled in ink, and let
loose periodically to devour the public, or their purses,
which amounts nearly to the same thing. Of this savage
animal I am the keeper and the master!”
Having achieved this succinct description of the Journal
which he edited, Mr. Sansoucy forced Ellie to swallow
the glass of wine he had poured out, and thereafter two
more glasses.
The child drank the wine almost mechanically, with the
same silent look — as if, indeed, she had abdicated all
exercise of her own will, implicitly relying upon that of
another, and a stronger. She did well, in this instance,
at least; for, before many moments had passed, her cheeks
recovered their color, her stiffened limbs relaxed, and
bending down, the tears which had been gathering in her
eyes, fell, relieving her overburdened heart. She had
-- 097 --
[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]
returned again to life, from that chill land which is the
boundary separating this world from the unexplored
domain beyond.
Mr. Sansoucy looked at her fixedly, and wondering
at the sweetness and goodness of the child's countenance,
said softly,
“What is your name, little one?”
“Ellen Lacklitter, sir,” replied Ellie, looking up
through her tears.
“Ah, Ellen is it? A pretty name. You did not give
me your card,” he said, smiling, “as I gave you mine.
But I'm glad you came—you know me now—my name is
Sansoucy—I am a literary machine, and dreadfully mercenary—
a machine which moves a pen only where fuel in
the shape of money is supplied. See there what an excellent
description I am giving you, while you, poor little
one, are almost too cold to understand me! Let me
come to business now—you must have wanted a friend—
speak and tell me if you do. You must, indeed, on such
a day as this—the wind is freezing, and faith! I think it
is cutting my window panes!”
Mr. Sansoucy had been assiduously working at the fire
during this speech, and had supplied it with various
journals, which it seemed to relish very much indeed, and
devour with deep delight. Having two or three times
just escaped setting the chimney on fire, he drew back
and sat down—coming to the end of his work and his
speech at the same moment.
The child hesitated a moment, stole a timid glance at
-- 098 --
[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]
his face, which seemed to encourage her, and said, in a
faltering voice:
“Uncle Joe's very sick, sir—and I thought—as you
said I might—I could not get any work—oh! sir, uncle
is so sick and we are so unhappy!”
“Uncle Joe?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Joe Lacklitter, eh?”
“Yes, sir,” faltered Ellie.
“I know Joe Lacklitter.”
“Oh! do you, sir?”
“Yes, indeed, I do.”
“He is very sick, and I love him so, sir;—oh! it is
so hard.”
Mr. Sansoucy was silent.
“I have tried to do all I could, and I have prayed to
God to help us, and give us comfort, and he has been very
good to us. But I couldn't get some work I expected—
and the snow came on, you know, sir—and—and—we
have no—”
Ellie could not finish, her voice quite broke down, and
covering her face, she cried, for some moments, silently.
Mr. Sansoucy laid back in his chair, and assuming a
bold and Spartan expression, endeavored to catch a
glimpse of his face in the mirror, over the fire-place, as
though to assure himself that he looked heroic and composed.
Having apparently satisfied himself on this point,
he took out his pocket-handkerchief, and blew his nose
with a steady and graceful hand; after which performance
he looked grander than ever, and uttered an oracular:
-- 099 --
[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]
“Hum!”
The child suppressed her emotion, and taking away her
hands gazed into the fire, thereby permitting the light to
illuminate the dew-drops, which remained where they had
fallen, on her cheeks.
Mr. Sansoucy gracefully pulled up his collar, which was
already sawing his ears, and said,
“How did Uncle Joe fall sick?”
“Carrying newspapers, early in the cold morning,” said
Ellie, raising her eyes, still filled with that extraordinary
softness and sweetness which had struck the journalist
before, “he was always up and out before day-break, sir,
and it often made him unwell, but never much sick. But he
was taken with a fever, the other day, and he couldn't go
any more.”
“A fever?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who carries the papers?”
“I don't know, sir. Charley sold some,” faltered Ellie.
“Charley?”
“Yes, sir; but he was too little—he is my brother, sir—
and he hadn't any shoes, and cried because the pavement
was so cold.
“Cried!” said Mr. Sansoucy, austerely.
“Oh, sir,—he's such a little boy—and when he came
home, his face was all stained with the papers.”
“What! his tears had been wiped away with the
journals.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ellen,” said Mr. Sansoucy, reclining in his chair, and
-- 100 -- p506-105
[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]
looking solemn, “this is a bad account of Charley. The
boy who wipes his eyes with the morning papers of subscribers
is on the high road to the —. Well! that is
not to the purpose. Is this all you have had to live on,
Ellie?”
“Oh, no, sir; I can work, and—and—we had some
things which I got some money for.”
“Pawned!” exclaimed Mr. Sansoucy.
“Yes, sir,” faltered Ellie.
“What?”
“It was—only—I didn't want it—”
“Your shawl or cloak, as I live!” cried Mr. Sansoucy,
bounding in his chair. “What scoundrel took away your
shawl?”
“Nobody! that was nothing—I am not cold—and oh,
sir, if uncle was only warm and comfortable, I wouldn't
care!”
Ellie's voice began to falter again, as she thought of her
sick uncle, and every word seemed to struggle with a sob
CHAPTER XVIII. HOW THE EDITOR OF THE WEEKLY MAMMOTH CAUSED THAT JOURNAL TO WAIT FOR COPY.
Mr. Sansoucy looked at the child for some moments
in silence, and there was so much odd and humorous pity
and tenderness in his face, that Ellie found her voice came
-- 101 --
[figure description] Page 101.[end figure description]
back to her, and the tears in her eyes, trembling on the
long lashes, did not fall.
“Well,” said Mr. Sansoucy, “if you could only see
your uncle warm and comfortable—”
“Oh, I should be so happy, sir!” said Ellie.
“Would you?”
“Oh, yes, sir—I got some work and the money went a
great way with us,” she went on, “and what you gave me,
sir, so kindly, bought uncle's medicines and tea; but we
have to spend so much!”
“Continue,” said Mr. Sansoucy, gazing at a bust of
Zeno, the stoic, and beating time upon his chair.
“I worked as long as I could, sir,” continued the child,
“and I tried to do my duty. But uncle is no better, and
our wood gave out—and Charley is crying now, I am
afraid. Oh, I tried to get some work, and I have tried to-day,
and, indeed, indeed, I never could have come to beg,”
a hectic flush accompanied the word, “if uncle was not
suffering. If you could give me anything to do for you—
some sewing!—I can sew very well—or anything—and—
pay me just a little money in advance—for uncle—not
me—”
And choked with tears, Ellie bent down and cried her
old silent cry; and then dried her eyes, or tried to, with
her fingers. Before she knew it, Mr. Sansoucy's white
handkerchief was assisting the fingers, and with a savage
look at the bust of Zeno, the gentleman rose.
“Now, Ellie,” said Mr. Sansoucy, “now that you have
stopped that, we will repair to the abode of Uncle Joe.”
-- 102 --
[figure description] Page 102.[end figure description]
“Oh, will you go with me!” cried Ellie, rising and
clasping her hands.
“Certainly, I will.”
“To uncle, sir?”
“Exactly.”
“How good and kind you are!” exclaimed the child,
with a look of tender gratitude, which went straight to the
stoic's heart.
“Pshaw!” said Mr. Sansoucy, pulling on his overcoat
in a business-like way. “I'm going down that way: I
have business there this afternoon. Where did you say it
was?” added Mr. Sansoucy, abstractedly.
Before Ellie could reply, he burst into a laugh.
“It is not so far, sir,” murmured Ellie.
“No, but so cold, mam'selle!”
“Sir?”
“Nothing!” said Mr. Sansoucy, declining to translate,
“now stand still, my dear little lady, and let us see if we
can't supply the place of that shawl, or other wrapping,
alienated from you, by your friend, the pawnbroker.”
Ellie would have refused—denying that it was too cold
for her—but to any demur upon her part, Mr. Sansoucy
paid no attention.
“There is a coat,” he said, opening a closet, “but you
would attract public attention; everybody would laugh at
you, and my friends would laugh at me—which is one of
the most awful and terrible misfortunes which can happen.”
“Oh, I don't think I want—”
“Then that dressing-gown,” continued Mr. Sansoucy,
thoughtfully, “that might do.”
-- 103 --
[figure description] Page 103.[end figure description]
“Oh, no, sir, I never could—”
“But that would be a small edition of myself in petti—
no, that word is not to be mentioned in polite society.
The dressing gown decidedly won't do.”
Ellie tried to interpose again: but she was arrested by
Mr. Sansoucy, who suddenly caught at a large, heavy
shawl, such as are worn by travellers, and dragged it into
the light, as though it had been a malefactor lurking in
the closet with felonious intentions.
“Try on that, little girl; and stay, let me aid you.”
Ellie could not resist: indeed, her resistance was very
faint, for the freezing cold without, came vividly to her
memory, and she looked longingly at the warm, heavy
shawl.
“There, it is folded to suit mam'selle's shoulders,” said
Mr. Sansoucy, smiling, “and now put it on—well around
the shoulders.”
Ellie did so with a grateful blush; and before she could
thank him, found her neck enveloped in a thick, heavy
comfort, which Mr. Sansoucy cautioned the child to wrap
in such a way that nothing should be visible but her nose.
Ellie, with tears of gratitude in her eyes, submitted to
this, and to all of Mr. Sansoucy's directions; and then he
led the way out.
“It is probable,” he said, as he locked the door, “that
an emissary from the paper will speedily arrive here in
pursuit of my editorial; in which case, this landing here
will be an eligible platform for him to wait and kick his
heels upon. One of the most serene and pleasant sensations
in the world, my little friend, is that derived from
-- 104 -- p506-109
[figure description] Page 104.[end figure description]
making the press wait for copy—I have frequently experienced
this pleasure. Now let us get on, for the afternoon
is growing colder and darker! Come!”
So saying, Mr. Sansoucy led the way down the steep
flight of stairs, followed by Ellie; and they reached the
bleak and frozen streets.
“Did any body ever see so black a day,” said the journalist,
“it's as dark as a waif's mouth. Come, my little
friend—we've no time to lose!”
And taking Ellie's hand, Mr. Sansoucy went forth with
his small companion on his mission.
CHAPTER XIX. SKETCHES A GENTLEMAN OF THE LAW.
The man and the child soon left the broad and well-kept
streets, and ere long found themselves in that unmistakeable
quarter, which all cities possess—the quarter
yielded up to the poor—where thin gentlemen walking
on air at Hebrew doors, flap in the faces of wayfarers,
audibly murmuring “old clo”'—where squalid men and
women swarm—where, in a word, the tide of life pours
on through mud and over stones, unknown, nay, not so
much as dreamed of, by the pleasure parties gliding with
gay music through the sunlit ripples overhead.
Here was the abode of Joe Lacklitter, and they soon
came to the door of the low cabin. Ellie, with her
-- 105 --
[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]
hand still in that of Mr. Sansoucy, led the way in—and
that gentleman looked round.
His eye took in at once all the details of the poor
apartment—the broken chairs, rude table, and low bed;
and then his gaze rested upon Charley, who was cowering
over a few expiring cinders—the mere mockery of a fire.
Mr. Sansoucy inwardly reflected that any respectable
scare-crow in a cornfield would indignantly have repelled
the idea of relationship to Charley. Charley, as we
have formerly said, was one integral rag from top to toe—
reduced to that condition of comparative respectability
by Ellie's needle; and his shaggy curls had not been
brushed that morning very carefully. He had one foot
suspended forlornly over the almost imaginary fire; and
his left thumb was in the right corner of his mouth, while
he hummed a mournful tune, which sounded like the death
chaunt at some goblin funeral.
Charley started back at first, upon seeing Mr. Sansoucy:
but that gentleman assumed the chair next to the
child, and winding his fingers in the straw-colored hair,
looked at him with a smile, which reassured him.
Ellie had hastened to the bed at once, and, to her great
relief, found her uncle sleeping comfortably. Her whole
heart went forth in a warm, grateful prayer, and she
turned toward the fire-place.
“Has uncle been sleeping well, Charley?” she asked,
softly.
“Mos' all day,” said the child.
Ellie uttered a sigh of relief, and bending over the fire-place,
tried to make the burnt-out embers blaze. As she
-- 106 --
[figure description] Page 106.[end figure description]
did so, a hand was laid upon her shoulder, and Mr.
Sansoucy—that eccentric Mr. Sansoucy, who thought
something of the sort might be of use—drew from his
overcoat pocket, a huge knot of resin-wood, crammed
with combustible properties. This he placed on the fire,
and then drew back, holding Ellie's hand.
The wood caught immediately, and the whole room
was filled with the light and warmth which it threw out.
“Now, Ellen, is there a store very near?” asked Mr.
Sansoucy.
“Yes, sir,” said the child.
“Get a basket, and your shawl, there, and let us go
and see if we can't find something for Uncle Joe.”
Ellie, with irrepressible tears of gratitude at this kindness,
obeyed, and the man and the child repaired to
Captain Schminky's. The cold chicken, and cheese and
biscuits, and wine, which were purchased by Mr. Sansoucy,
would appear fabulous were we to describe them;
and when the contents of the basket were taken out
before the eyes of Charley, his eyes opened to a dangerous
extent, and his tongue, visible between his teeth,
expressed the most unutterable astonishment.
Of Ellie's thanks and gratitude, why speak? Of her
eyes, brim full of that gratitude, we might say a word;
but no description, however cunningly worded, could
convey an idea of the beautiful look she gave the author
of this magic.
Mr. Sansoucy has since declared that this was perhaps
the happiest moment of his life—that the expression of
Ellie's face caused him the deepest pleasure he was able
-- 107 --
[figure description] Page 107.[end figure description]
to enjoy;—and he has often said that she resembled a
pure angel, such as Raphael Sanzio might have seen in
one of his bright reveries, and died to think he could not
place upon his canvass.
Perhaps it was because this satisfied him perfectly, and
was the payment he had selfishly expected—perhaps he
did not want to receive the thanks of Joe, or any further
looks of gratitude from Ellie—perhaps he was obliged to
return to his affairs—but after thus doing his good part,
the editor rose softly, and put on his hat.
But often are the children of men mistaken in their calculations—
and on this occasion Mr. E. Sansoucy was
most certainly destined to delay his departure for some
time yet.
If the reader will deign to cast his eyes back upon a
former page of our chronicle, he will find that among the
names exhibited as a memorandum to Mr. A. Fantish, by
the senior Fantish, on the morning of their conversation,
was the name of Lacklitter—against which Lacklitter
it appeared that Mr. Fantish, senior, had a claim for rent
unpaid—which claim had finally been put into the considerate
hands of “The Law,” and by that agency was
now about to be presented for premptory discharge.
This debt had been owed by Uncle Joe for only a very
short time, and he would probably have paid it very soon
but for his unfortunate sickness. He had told Mr. Fantish,
but a short time before, that he hoped soon to pay it;
and so had given himself no further anxiety about it, fully
confiding in his ability.
Mr. Fantish, senior, however, was much too sagacious
-- 108 --
[figure description] Page 108.[end figure description]
a gentleman to trust the poor. What he could trust was
a “levy” upon the Lacklitter effects for the small sum, and
this was the proceeding adopted by Mr. Fantish, with the
assistance of the Law and its myrmidons.
All this preamble goes to introduce a gentleman, who
knocked rudely at the door, just as Mr. Sansoucy was
about to take his departure, and who entered immediately
as one having authority, and if not sure of a welcome, at
least relying on his power.
This man—let us try an outline sketch of him—was the
representative of a class who, managing to induct themselves
into the low places of the law, throw shame and
discredit upon the administration of justice, and lower in
public estimation the many kind-hearted and amiable men
who are associated with them in a similar capacity.
Obsequious and cringing to the rich, this gentleman was
fierce and cruel to the poor; he never failed to strike a
disarmed victim, or to fawn upon and lick the hand which
could open to bestow a “consideration,” or close to inflict
a blow. It was almost amusing to witness the assiduity
with which he would court and flatter the fortunate
possessor of “much moneys;” and it was an admirable
philosophic spectacle to see him taking off his hat to a
man who could impeach him for misconduct. Consistent
in his admiration for wealth, he treated its possessors with
uniform respect; and so harmonious and faithful in coloring
was his meanness, that it impressed you with the force
of a Spartan virtue. Not, however, to analyze too
curiously a character scarcely destined to reappear in our
chronicle—which would fain busy itself with more
-- 109 -- p506-114
[figure description] Page 109.[end figure description]
entertaining matters—this gentleman was one of those venomous
insects of the times, which buzz, and breed, and sting,
and are finally brushed away by that public disgust, which
is not seldom visited on the best sustained officials. As
yet, however, he had escaped such a fate, and came to
“levy” on Uncle Joe, and his effects.
The worthy gentleman entered Joe Lacklitter's dwelling
with the intention of pursuing his customary programme
of proceeding—which was based upon the value
of his time, and the contemptible nature of the material
upon which he was to work.
If he was to levy upon a rebellious debtor, he would
flourish his stick; if upon a woman, he would prepare to
thrust her coarsely aside; while if children were in the
way, he would push them out of the way with his foot,
after the manner of pigs. Catching a glimpse of the
head of the sick man on the present occasion, before he
was aware of the presence of Mr. Sansoucy, who was
concealed by the opening door, he approached the bed
with the intention of dragging away the cover and forcing
the invalid to rise.
CHAPTER XX. SUNSHINE COMES TO-MORROW.
Why should we describe the scene which followed, or
busy ourselves with the disagreeable personage who has
thrust himself upon our canvas?
-- 110 --
[figure description] Page 110.[end figure description]
As there are scenes of beauty and grandeur which no
art can adequately portray, so there are base and ignoble
incidents, from the too close contemplation of which the
mind comes away as though its garments had been soiled.
As there are characters in the world of such exalted
goodness and loveliness that we take off our hats in their
presence, and thankfully salute them, bowing to them as
our superiors, and carrying away with us a sentiment of
purity and love, which gilds existence, making the very
sunshine brighter,—as there are human faces more beautiful
and tender than the dreams of the old painters, with
rapt eyes fixed on the sky, and waiting for Madonna to
beam on them,—as the world holds these entrancing and
pure visions of an infinite loveliness and beauty, so does
it exhibit, in its other departments, characters and faces
which the lowest grovelling of the meanest and most
brutal fancy never could approach; beings which we
struggle in our hearts to look on as deformities of human
nature, poor and weak as it may be—which we turn from,
and do not wish to touch, and gladly see depart from us.
It is enough to say, that soon after entering the dwelling
of the sick man, the official left it with a scowl, which
would have done justice to a disarmed demon, from whose
hand a prize had just been snatched.
There was this observable about Mr. Sansoucy, that in
any contest he generally acted with a calm knowledge of
his position and his strength; and the interview which
we have refrained from describing, proved this. He was
well-known to the officer, he had assumed the debt—after
that, the presence of the official was an impertinence.
-- 111 --
[figure description] Page 111.[end figure description]
He accordingly departed, not meeting Mr. Sansoucy's
eye, but turning with his scowl of hate and anger as he
disappeared.
If we have not described this scene, we may also omit
any description of what followed. The sick man had
only breathed harder, and looked on in silence—Ellie
only sobbed and cried silently—Charley only gazed with
terror at the mysterious intruder. As for Ellie she had
not so much as brought her mind to comprehend that the
law, which called itself Justice and Mercy, would aid any
one in depriving her sick uncle of the bed he lay upon.
Joe could not find words to thank Mr. Sansoucy, which
was very fortunate, as that gentleman seemed determined
to accept none at all. He explained the cause of his
presence, and said that as he had promised Ellie to be
their friend, if they needed him, he would faithfully fulfil
his promise. He would see that a good doctor—his own
physician—came to see the invalid; and just as soon as
he was better, they should have a comfortable lodging
elsewhere.
Let us add here, that all that he promised, Mr. Sansoucy
faithfully performed. That in fifteen or twenty
days—thanks to the new physician—Uncle Joe was well
enough to be removed; and that he was removed—and
that new quarters were in the large, somewhat dilapidated
building of which Aunt Phillis occupied the
cellar. There, with the reader's permission, we shall in
due time rejoin them, and narrate what other adventures
befell our little friend Ellie, not forgetting the adventures
of her friends also.
-- 112 --
[figure description] Page 112.[end figure description]
But we go too fast, and have left Mr. Sansoucy a long
way from home on a very cold night.
It was not easy for him to leave that grateful family
whom he had made happy—whose darkness and despair
he had turned into life and hope. At last he rose, and
put on his hat.
“Good-bye, friends,” he said, with his cheerful voice:
“It will not be long before I see you again. Come! no
thanks for anything which I have done—good-bye, little
one—as we say in letters, “always your friend!”
And he smoothed Ellie's hair, and turned away. But
before he could draw it away, or resist, or move, Ellie
caught the hand, and pressed it to her lips, and bathed
it with her warm, glad, happy tears.
He drew back quickly, gently repulsed her, and went
out. Walking along the chill and frozen streets, he felt
a warmth within his heart which laughed at all the bitter
cold. If all who can would only try this heart-warmth!
And gazing on the tears remaining on his hand, he
thought if blood were there, the stain would disappear,
though “all the perfumes of Arabia” had failed to
“sweeten it.”
-- 113 -- p506-118
BOOK II.
[figure description] Page 113.[end figure description]
CHAPTER I. MUSINGS OF A JOURNALIST.
Since the scenes just described, in which we have
endeavoured to trace, step by step, the piteous struggles
of a child—a month very nearly has passed, and Mr.
Sansoucy sits in his chamber, adjoining that apartment
we have entered once with Ellie—sits smoking, dreaming,
and smiling.
We have scarcely outlined this gentleman: let us
endeavor now to do so.
Mr. Sansoucy, the son of a Virginia Huguenot, was a
man of twenty-five or thirty—and, with much character
and thought in his countenance, seemed yet to retain
in all their force, the youthful recollections and illusions
which not seldom cling to men until a later period of life—
after which they gradually fade. When we look at
him reclining in his arm-chair, and sighing and smiling,
the presence of these old illusions is very plain—and his
face is one which any physiognomist would set down as
that of a dreamer.
He has blue eyes, large and mild—his hair is short and
of a soft brown: his face handsome and striking. His
eyes are full of kindness and sincerity; and in them may
very easily be read the peculiarities of the journalist,
though scarcely his singular character. No one made a
more agreeable impression even upon utter strangers than
-- 114 --
[figure description] Page 114.[end figure description]
Sansoucy. He had the most delightful good humor in
ordinary intercourse, that it is possible to imagine—his
face was the picture of kindness and cheerfulness, and it
was impossible to resist his smile or his address.
His countenance had that good humor which is better
than wit, and when his jests gave way to earnestness, “all
the world” listened, if they did not “wonder,” as Mr. Tennyson
says of them at Balaklava. Perhaps, however, the
greatest charm about this man was his careless conversations
with his bosom friends. Then it was that Mr. Sansoucy
appeared in the fullest strength of his singular and
almost eccentric genius. His monologue passed through
all gradations of humor and pathos, and the hearer went
away with the impression that he had been listening to the
wisest folly, the most laughing earnestness conceivable.
Shakespeare would have cultivated the acquaintance of
Sansoucy, and watched him with his great luminous eyes,
making a “study” of him, for a new drama; and Sansoucy,
we are very much afraid, would have candidly pointed out
the weaknesses in Hamlet, and gone to Eastcheap afterwards
with the bard to make the acquaintance of the Ancient
Pistol. The long leagues of travel had shown Sansoucy
human life in every form, and if he laughed at all,
as he often did, it was not an unkind or cynical laugh, but
came from a large heart full of sympathy, and that truest
humor, which is ever balanced between smiles and tears.
After this lengthy outline, we are almost afraid to undertake
our chronicle, quite confident that we cannot place
upon paper anything to justify our eulogy of this gentleman's
vivacity. But who could ever remember it, or
-- 115 --
[figure description] Page 115.[end figure description]
explain it? The repetition of his words was like flat champagne,
from which all the spirit has escaped—and grasping
at his humor, you caught it as readily as you would a
subtle and delicate perfume.
When we present Mr. Sansoucy to the reader, he is
seated, as we have said, in his chamber adjoining the editorial
sanctum. The chamber is as much littered up with
journals as the office—and the table is covered with MSS.
and supports a tall silver candle-stick, in which burns a
single candle. On the walls are numerous oil paintings,
and some portraits, and over the fire-place, in which burns
a cheerful fire, hangs in a rich antique frame, discolored
with the suns of many years, a pencil sketch, which the
journalist gazes at, pensively sighing, as he smokes his
long German pipe, and muses after the manner of great
smokers.
As he gazes, a strange, wistful smile comes to his face,
and he murmurs:
“Yes, yes, there is the light of my youth, the sunshine
of my boyhood, the future blessing of my life I used to think
when I was a juvenile—and where is now all this pretty
picture? Gone away, like all happy things on this earth!
What's the use of sighing! All things pass and the dead
day is always the brightest—especially to literary men.
They deify the past, because it rises for them clear and
brilliant, without any of the prosaic common-places which
make the present so repulsive. I suppose some of these
days I'll write a chivalric romance,” continued Sansoucy,
looking with his faint smile into the fire, “and all the
-- 116 --
[figure description] Page 116.[end figure description]
characters will be impossible personages, all the incidents
hoisted up on Brobdignagian stilts!”
Having delivered himself of this observation, Sansoucy
is silent, smiling.
“The fact is,” he continues, after indolently smoking
for some moments, “there's no such thing as interpreting
the past truly. We can't discern the real spirit—we miss
the actual splendor and fall short of it. They say that
every man is greater than his work—but that only proves
that his work is bad. Pshaw! I am moralizing!”
And Sansoucy smokes again.
“How they do try!” he goes on, after a while, and
smiling as he speaks. “There's one of the new litter of
books upon the table, written by somebody who has got
to dreaming about the past of the state of Virginia; and
he tells us how a young fellow, once upon a time, dressed
himself in velvet, ruffles, gold buttons, and so forth, and
`launched himself like a flash of lightning' somewhere—
which seems to me to be a dangerous proceeding. Good!
let him! There's something in the gold buttons; which
tailors, however, have ceased making use of—and if there
was not, throughout the book, a fixed disdain for Lindley
Murray, and the English grammar generally—which may
however be attributed to some hostile printer—one might
go to sleep over the tale quite comfortably. But the
writer has failed; he can't do it, sir!” says Sansoucy,
addressing his imaginary opponent, “that time remains
for the maestro, who will come some day, and then we 'll
have it.”
Sansoucy muses—smiling.
-- 117 -- p506-122
[figure description] Page 117.[end figure description]
“What a pretty time it was!” he goes on, “rapiers,
ruffles, cocked hats, and high-heeled shoes;—cut, thrust,
or your humble servant!—and the ladies fair! Why can't
somebody go to that old mansion yonder, and catch its
atmosphere? What scenes we should live in again—illustrated
and adorned by all the beauty, grace and chivalry
of the elder time. Pay me, and I'll do it,” said Sansoucy,
laughing, “and I 'll review my story in the Mammoth, with
strict impartiality and fairness!”
Having addressed this offer to a circle of imaginary
book-publishers, Sansoucy pauses for a reply, and smokes,
smiling, as though Mr. Harper, or some other enterprising
gentleman had taken him at his word. A knock
resounds at the door of the outer room; and Sansoucy,
rousing himself, utters a sonorous “Come in!”
Steps are then heard, and a gentleman enters and passes
to the chamber, and gives Sansoucy a friendly and unceremonious
greeting.
CHAPTER II. THE OLD ACTORS—WHERE ARE THEY?
The visitor is Mr. Incledon.
He is clad just as we have seen him upon former
occasion—with the same elegant simplicity; and his
countenance wears the same expression of grave dignity.
He presses Sansoucy's hand with friendly warmth, and sits
-- 118 --
[figure description] Page 118.[end figure description]
down as one does in the apartment of a friend, without
ceremony or stiffness.
“I'm glad to see you, Ralph,” says Sansoucy, “and
you look quite hearty.”
“I'm well enough, Ernest. I was passing, and thought
I would come in.”
“A most excellent thought, and most manfully carried
into execution. The individual who mounts those two
flights of stairs, must possess a warmth of friendship, and
a vigor of determination, sufficient to set up a Damon, or
rival Robert Bruce!”
Having uttered which “chaste and elegant” sentence,
as say the gentlemen of letters, Sansoucy, or Ernest, if the
reader pleases, smiled with his whole countenance, including
his eyes.
“Why, your stairs are not so high,” said Incledon.
“But steep—deep I may say.”
“So they are.”
“Almost as deep as my reveries when you entered.”
“What were you thinking about?” said his friend, in
his habitual tone of gravity and calmness, which never
seemed to amount to stateliness. “What a meditator
you are.”
“True, but I am studying.”
“What subject?”
“Human nature.”
“That is deeper than anything else I know of.”
“Yes—try a cigar—but I forgot, you never smoke,”
said Sansoucy. “Yes, I really think this subject is deep,
and I am rapidly coming to the conclusion of one of my
-- 119 --
[figure description] Page 119.[end figure description]
friends—Hope, you know—that there is a great amount
of human nature in this world—this `Pilgrim's Progress
of a mortal vale,' as Mrs. Gamp says, according to Mr.
Dickens, though not in near so elegant a way.”
“What a bitter book that is.”
“What? `Martin Chuzzlewit?”'
“Yes.”
“So it is; this hatred, almost, of America, is the only
blot I see upon the character of a man, who seems to me
the noblest genius of our age. What a beauty and glory
of pathos is there in Charles Dickens! All the world
cries and laughs with him, and Paul is the `little friend'
of everybody! That child walks hand in hand with
`Nell' through English literature, and so they will go on
forever—beautiful as pathos, and as dear as early love.”
“A great writer,” said Incledon.
“Yes,” said Sansoucy, “in his way, as others are great
in other ways. I bow to such men, and am glad to call
such maestro. They interpret the life of to-day, and this
will ever admit of clearer personation than historic life,
which makes it necessary for the artist to go back to the
period he chooses—leaving the present, wholly—and thus
throw himself heart and soul into the dead world of the
past.”
“I should consider it most difficult.”
“Yes, it must be. I scarcely ever dared to touch it,
though, as you know, I have written many tales for the
magazines—and money,” said Sansoucy, smiling.
“Oh, you slander yourself.”
“How?”
-- 120 --
[figure description] Page 120.[end figure description]
“By this imputation.”
“The money—?”
“Yes: you write, Ernest, from a true love of Art.
“Art!” cried Sansoucy: “what is Art, my dear fellow?
Will Art put money in your purse?”
“No, but fame in your life.”
“What is fame?” said Sansoucy, philosophically;
“stay, let me repeat you what Colonel Henry Esmond,
according to Mr. Thackeray, says of worldly honors—I
have it by heart, and nothing could be finer. `What,'
he says, `do these profit a year hence, when other names
sound louder than yours; when you lie hidden away
under ground, along with the idle titles engraven on your
coffin? But only true love lives after you—follows your
memory with secret blessings—or precedes you, and intercedes
for you. Non omnis moriar—if dying—I yet
live in a tender heart or two; nor am lost and hopeless
living, if a sainted departed soul still loves and prays for
me!' Could anything be truer or more beautiful?”
“Your criticism is just—the philosophy perfect, and
the passage exquisite. I am glad you do not care for
vulgar fame.”
“Care! I despise it most enthusiastically, my dear
friend, and that because it is cloying in possession, and
transitory in character.”
“Yes, yes.”
“What fame of general or statesman, unless it be the
perfume of noble deeds lingering still, is worth having?—
where is all the brilliant society which used to carry itself
-- 121 --
[figure description] Page 121.[end figure description]
on hereabouts? A little dust is the contents of the
crucible.”
“Why, you are in a profoundly philosophical mood,
Ernest; you are going to turn hermit.”
“Oh, no, I am too fond of my life; and some-day I
shall blaze out in an extraordinary way.”
“How?”
“Literary, of course. Authors are growing respectable,
and a literary friend of mine got a discount the
other day.”
Incledon smiled.
“True,” said his friend, lazily; “but it is proper to
say, our friend over there, the rich wig-maker, was on his
note. Between the beautifier of the head, internally and
externally, the Bank, you see, could not resist.”
“Pshaw, you are jesting. What new books?”
“A whole cartload. Our literature, I repeat, is becoming
respectable. I was reflecting, as you came in,
that, probably, we should, some day, have a school of
historical romance.”
“I am sure we shall.”
“Why should we not?”
“I see no reason.”
“The past is rich enough in contrasts, and, but now, it
occured to me, that it ought to be worked.”
“It will be, some day.”
“Assuredly,” said Sansoucy: “and I will cradle the
new-born babe in the white sheets of the “Weekly Mammoth.”
Tender nursling! he will need protection and
encouragement, thrown on the roaring surges of this
-- 122 --
[figure description] Page 122.[end figure description]
wicked world. True! why should not somebody come
and write about the great, the magnificent things which
flooded the Revolutionary period with splendor. Even
the lesser details of manners are in admirable contrast
with the present, and are like so many blocks hewn out,
and waiting for the master-workman to raise to the pinnacle
of Art. We laugh at them, but that proves that
they entertain us;—and, when you came in, I was thinking
what a crowd of worthies, male and female, had
promenaded on that piazza, yonder, over the house-tops,
in the ridiculous, pompous old times. Just think what a
delighful set of folks they were. Gallant cavaliers in silk
stockings and ruffles, and knee-breeches and powder—
with lengthy waistcoats, and embroidered coats, assembled
over yonder to talk in their pompous grand old way,
which amuses me so much, that I positively like them,
thinking of them. They talked with ladies, observe mon
ami, not at all resembling the fair dames of to-day.'
“They were much the same in character.”
“Very true—but in costume?”
“Very different.”
“I should think so. Fancy our respected grandfathers
waltzing, or in the middle of a polka, with some of our
modern misses! Faith! the old gentleman would dash
his wig in words, if not in deed. They were different
then—the ladies fair; and it was these dames of old days
that the pompous old fogies, as we call them, talked to.
Fair dames they were, in powder—with white chins,
patch-covered—with short waisted dresses, bare arms,
covered with diamond bracelets, girdles of velvet, with
-- 123 --
[figure description] Page 123.[end figure description]
golden clasps, and high red heels to their shoes, which
clattered as they walked!”
“You are studying costume,” said Incledon.
`I? not at all. But that is but a part of my erudition.
They flirted variegated fans, my dear fellow, and ogled
and murmured, and laughed and sighed;—enslaving the
gay gallants much after the fashion of their fair descendants
in the present day. That old house yonder, saw all
this gayety and laughter, these bright forms and brilliant
eyes—observe my own, I grow poetical!—which shine
still in the air, and make the spot fairy ground. You
can't go there, and stand upon that portico, without seeing
all the past rise up again, and glow with the splendor
which it has not left to us, except as a memory, something
`i' the air,' subtle and delicate, like some delicious
odor!”
“Why, you are enthusiastic.”
“I am growing poetical, as I told you.”
“And you cling to the past?”
“Why not? The gay throng of to-day has no longer
anything to attract those who are fond of dreams, as I
am—and that, because the past is alive again with all its
glittering figures and enchanting eyes, its musical voices
and gay laughter—the past, mon ami, illustrated by its
cavaliers and dames, who went away before the advent of
the Prosaic Age!”
Sansoucy paused and smoked, for his pipe had nearly
gone out in the mean time: and for some minutes he was
silent.
“Good,” he said, at last, with his old smile, “here I am
-- 124 --
[figure description] Page 124.[end figure description]
dreaming out loud, and that for your benefit. But why
not? Why not amuse ourselves with a mind-picture of
those tender and gracious phantoms shining through the
mist; and take our hats off and salute them? Beautiful
and lovely dames! they say untruly that you are dead,
and only memories—forgotten music, silent laughter! I
hold that nothing is less true. You live to-day as you did
in the old days, with your gracious smiles, and liquid eyes,
and soft lips, quite expert to shape the compliments or satire
of the elder day! The flattering or dreadful speeches
which you made sound for us still—the speeches which
raised the gallant in knee-breeches to the empyrean, or
made his reflections suicidal. Yes, beautiful and fair
dames! you live to-day, and reach out tender arms towards
us, showering gracious smiles! Most respected of grandmothers,
you move visibly still, with the most venerated
of grandfathers; and the comedy of to-day is but that of
your age played over again with all its joys and griefs—
its sighs and laughter! The drama is the same—the
Human Comedy—but the old actors—where are they?”
“Plain enough in your `mind's eye,' as Hamlet says,”
replied Incledon, when this apostrophe of Sansoucy was
gone through with; “for my part I am very glad the past
is what it is—passed. I love it so much that I wish to
increase my affection by absence and separation.”
“Ah, my friend! you are not a poet! You are so unfortunate
as not to sleep in a garret and live on moonbeams;
how unhappy!”
And Sansoucy laughed.
-- 125 --
[figure description] Page 125.[end figure description]
“Come, Ernest,” said Incledon, “this is not honest in
you.”
“Honest?”
“Were you the dreamer you represent yourself, we
should not be such close friends.”
“Am I not?”
“No.”
“How am I not?”
“You are one of the most active men I ever knew.”
“Bah! I active?”
“Yes.”
“I'm a waiter for time and tide, a pococurante, an
eccentric.”
“You are also a teacher.”
“Eh?”
“Of children.”
“Oh, you mean the Ragged School?”
“Yes.”
“That's my amusement. I see life there.”
“How you cover up your good deeds!”
“Pshaw! What are you looking at?”
“At your picture,” said Incledon, whose eyes were
fixed upon the sketch above the mantel-piece.
“Ah! at my head!”
And a slight cloud seemed to pass over Sansoucy's forehead,
as a mist glides across the heavens in a morn of
May.
-- 126 -- p506-131
CHAPTER III. HOW SANSOUCY RELATED A FAIRY TALE WITH REAL PERSONAGES, FOR HIS FRIEND'S AMUSEMENT.
[figure description] Page 126.[end figure description]
Sansoucy's face remained thus shadowed for a moment,
and his eyes seemed to wander far away to other scenes
of joy or of pain, of sorrow or of happiness—which, no
one could tell, for his brow was inscrutable.
Then sighing, he said, as his face cleared up again:
“Ah, my picture—you are looking at my picture?”
“Yes: you have often referred to it,” said Incledon,
with a slight smile, “and I think it is not a fancy piece.”
“No.”
And with the quickness habitual to him, Sansoucy
passed from smiles to thoughtfulness, from merriment to
sadness.
“Tell me who it is, Ernest!” said his friend, “it seems
to me I have seen the face before.”
“Perhaps—yes, who knows,” murmured Sansoucy
“Have I seen it?”
“It is not improbable.”
“It has a history?”
“Yes—a sort of history: for me. That, Ralph,” said
Sansoucy, with his old pensive smile, “is one of the ligaments
which bind me to the past. I often dream over
that face, and perhaps my lonely musings upon the original
have had more to do with my oddity, as you call it—
-- 127 --
[figure description] Page 127.[end figure description]
my love for my recollections, and my dreams—than I
know of.”
“You speak in riddles.”
“I am a poor Sphynx—I am not stone!” he said,
sadly.
“Speak then without enigmas.”
Sansoucy passed his hand across his brow, and the sad,
wistful smile came to his countenance again.
“Well, I will,” he said.
“I listen”
“Will a fairy tale, with real personages, suit you?”
“Perhaps.”
“Listen then; but first take a look at the drawing, and
tell me what you think of it.”
Incledon obeyed, and after gazing for some time at the
picture, said:
“I have seldom seen a face of greater or fresher beauty.
The child must have been about twelve years old.”
“Only eleven!” murmured Sansoucy.
“Her hair was probably auburn—her eyes grey,” said
Incledon, smiling.
“No, no!—she had the most beautiful golden tresses,
and her eyes were as `azure as the heavens'—as Pope said
of Swift, you you know,” he murmured.
“Ah? she must have been beautiful. There is a frank
look of candor and innocence about it, like a French
study of La Salle's I have somewhere seen.”
“In fact, that was the distinguishing characteristic of
her countenance.”
-- 128 --
[figure description] Page 128.[end figure description]
“Well, now we have seen the portrait, let us have the
story.”
“The story?”
“Did you not promise a fairy tale, with real personages?”
“True, true! Listen, then.”
And Sansoucy smiled in his old sad, wistful way.
“There was once a country where the roses always
seemed to bloom,” he said, sighing, “where the winds
were always May-day breezes—where the streams ran far
more merrily than elsewhere—and where the birds sang
more sweetly than the nightingales of Cashmere. You
see, I commence in the Oriental fashion; but I shall go on
less poetically. Well, in this beautiful country, which you
may call, if you choose, the Virgin land, a boy was born,
and a girl—the boy was older. The name of the boy
was Ernest—the name of the girl, Aurelia.”
“Ernest!” said his friend smiling. “why that is your
name.”
“Yes.”
“A striking coincidence.”
“Yes, very striking.”
“Well.”
“Well,” continued Sansoucy, smiling dimly, “the boy
and the girl, it happened, lived very near each other—indeed
their fathers' houses were in sight of each other, and
they often wandered down to the clear stream which
separated the domains.”
“Yes.”
“The girl was a mere child, but very beautiful; and
-- 129 --
[figure description] Page 129.[end figure description]
they wandered on so long together through the fairy-land
of youth, that one day Ernest found that his poor heart
had gone from him and had come into possession of the
child who wandered with him. He did not realize this as
a thing familiar to the world—the old experience of all
since Adam—but regarded it as his own dear secret—
what the children of men had never felt before. He
cherished it in his heart of hearts as his boyhood's
treasure, and all his life was changed and glorified by it,
and he felt the throb which preludes the strong passion of
the full-grown man.”
“Who knows but his feeling was all the purer,” said
Incledon.
“Perhaps it was. In truth, no sentiment could have
been more innocent, and disinterested, and elevated, than
his love. In the child's presence he was happy; away
from her, life seemed nothing to him but a poor, sad
phantasmagoria, where no sun shone, no pure music filled
the air for him.
“Wandering along the banks of the brook, hand in
hand, they advanced not over material, gross earth, but on
a carpet, softer and more splendid than that fairy tissue
unrolled by Aladdin for his beloved princess. The landscape
was not ordinary meadow, hill and forest, but the
land of illusion and romance, with a boundless horizon of
verdure and delight.”
“He must have been in love.”
“He was; and when he took the child in his arms, to
carry her across the brook, or wove the pure, faint, wildflowers
into a crown for her, and placed it on her forehead,
-- 130 --
[figure description] Page 130.[end figure description]
he thought that heaven had sent to bless his life, one of
those pure angels of our dreams, which never alight and
stay on earth.”
“Poor fellow!” said Incledon, smiling.
“Oh, no! not poor!—he was rich! Rich as the lord
of Potosi, or the fabulous splendors of the Caliphat! He
never lived when absent from her—in her presence all the
birds of spring seemed singing, and the world was dead
for him—she only in his existence!”
“What a strange feeling towards so mere a child!”
“He was but a child himself—but she was far beyond
her age. She was one of the most perfectly finished characters
I ever knew—”
“You knew her then!”
“Yes, yes!” said his friend, smiling, wistfully, “and
never have I seen such loveliness. She had the tenderest
and softest voice I have ever heard; and when she sang,
you paused to listen as to a bird of the tropics singing
from a land of unimagined beauty. I have seen a room
full of persons stop talking to listen to her; and the frank
kindness of the child's face made every one her friend who
knew her. She had the most perfect simplicity and gentleness;
and when she laughed you thought that she had
uttered the wittiest and most brilliant speech imaginable.
Poor Ernest!—what wonder that he loved his little
Aurelia! To know her was to love her; and her friendship
was a `liberal education.' See how I prose upon
the subject, wearying you with all this tirade. Well! the
day came at last, as it always comes to children, when the
-- 131 --
[figure description] Page 131.[end figure description]
world stretched out its hard, mailed hand, and pushed
them asunder.”
“They parted!”
“Yes; and their last interview was by the stream where
they had been so happy. Ernest drew well—and sitting
down, he outlined that picture, which he afterwards
filled up.”
“He gave it to you?”
“Perhaps!—the word that expresses the genius of
France—from which country my family originally came,
for we are Huguenots. Well, well; the boy placed the
picture on his heart, and for a moment he held to that
poor beating heart the tender form of one who cried and
shook, and would not part with him. Then he tore himself
away, and went to Bordeaux, and thence to Nantz,
visiting his numerous relations, who had never forgotten
their American branch. He returned in three or four
years, having travelled and `seen life'—poor life, which
was nothing to him, without a heart. He came back then,
and found the family had gone to another part of the
country. He went thither—and saw Aurelia, and was
met with cold embarrassment, as though memory to her
was only a regret. `From the double blow he did not
rise.' He returned home, and burying himself in his
chamber, reflected on the miserable texture of human
things, which made him thus a stranger to the only heart
he coveted, and which he thought was his own. She had
grown indifferent, he did not return, and so they remained
apart—but not wholly. She lived doubly—in his heart,
and yonder, before his eyes!”
-- 132 --
[figure description] Page 132.[end figure description]
Sansoucy smiled sadly, and pointed to the picture.
“You have related a very pretty little fairy tale for my
amusement—”
“A chapter of real life, which is quite as full of magic
as the Arabian Nights.”
“And I should return you my thanks,” added Incledon,
“What became of your friend Ernest?”
“He went away and became a poor journalist, and had
a friend named Incledon, who laughed at his romantic
folly.”
“That was very wrong in his friend. Now let us leave
these things of the past and return to real life. Do you
go to the ball to-night?”
“I don't know.”
“You know the scheme?”
“What?”
“That the dresses worn by the ladies are to be duly
given to the poor to-morrow.”
“Truly!”
“That is it.”
“I'm glad I'm not a paterfamilias, with a brace of
party-going daughters.”
“Oh, the dresses will be very plain.”
“Good.”
“And persons who would not go to these assemblies at
other times, will attend.”
“That is easily understood.”
“I, you know, have very little fancy for such things,
which are best avoided by professing Christians, though
there is no deadly sin involved.”
-- 133 -- p506-138
[figure description] Page 133.[end figure description]
“Good! I agree with you.”
“You will go?”
“Why, yes; it will be a pretty spectacle.”
“I wish to introduce you to some lady friends.”
“Thanks—with pleasure!”
“Very well,” said Incledon, “the evening is drawing on,
and I must go and dress. Don't fail,” he said, rising, and
putting on his overcoat.
“Count upon me.”
“There will be a press; come early.”
“I am one of the press—I live in and by it. There,
my dear fellow, admire my brilliant witticism. You must
go? Well, good-bye for the present. I shall finish my
pipe!”
And they parted.
CHAPTER IV. DOCTOR FOSSYL AND THE DANCE OF DEATH.
When Mr. Sansoucy entered the ball room; the company
had fully arrived; and with the philosophic interest
of a sight-seer, the journalist embraced at a glance, the
brilliant and imposing spectacle.
The ladies were clad in the plainest and most
comfortable dresses, but were decorated with their customary
“finery,” in the shape of pearl necklaces, and
diamond breastpins, and jewelled coronals. So striking
was the contrast between these decorations and their
-- 134 --
[figure description] Page 134.[end figure description]
dresses, that Mr. Sansoucy inwardly made the brilliant
remark, that they resembled, every one, a beautiful
beggar-maid newly adorned by King Cophetua, for
queen and mistress of the royal heart. “It is fortunate
that the present fashion is not like the old,” he muttered,
smiling: “and that makes it all the better.”
With which words, Mr. Sansoucy plunged into the
undulating and sparkling throng, exchanging jests and
compliments with everybody, with which personage he
seemed to be intimately acquainted.
Of course the novel idea so successfully put into practice,
was the almost universal topic of conversation; and
it is almost safe to say that every gentleman who made
new acquaintances on that evening, commenced the conversation
with some gay or solemn, brilliant or dull
observation on the subject.
Having heard the subject discussed some hundreds of
times, in making the circuit of the rooms, Mr. Sansoucy
conceived the eccentric fancy to be original, and abstain
from all allusion to the topic, unless it were introduced.
And this resolution he carried out in full by closing his eyes
to the novelty, and conversing upon every other subject.
Passing on thus, distributing smiles and jests, compliments
and laughter, the journalist finally stopped before
a man, who, leaning against the wall of the apartment, was
surveying the brilliant spectacle with a sardonic smile,
which made his face anything but pleasant to behold.
He was a man of sixty or sixty-five, of small stature,
and with a lofty and peaked forehead, around which a
few lingering gray hairs strove to meet and join their
-- 135 --
[figure description] Page 135.[end figure description]
extremities. His eyebrows were heavy and rugged, his
skin the color of soiled parchment, and his lips, which
were a mere straight line in his furrowed countenance,
seemed habitually to wear the satirical and disdainful
smile which they now exhibited. He was dressed in
black from head to foot; wore black splatterdashes, which
were tightly buttoned around his spider-like legs, and
carried in his hand, as though to be consistent at all
points, an ebony snuff-box, from which he occasionally
helped himself to a pinch of snuff.
Sansoucy stopped in front of this man, and arresting
his wandering eye, said:
“How do you do, Doctor? You seem entertained.”
“I am,” said the Doctor, in a harsh and satirical
voice; I scarcely recollect when I have been so much
amused.”
“Amused! you! Why you are never amused.”
“I am, to-night.”
“How?”
“Looking at this fine spectacle.”
“I thought the great savant, Doctor Fossyl, found his
amusement elsewhere.”
“In sick chambers, hospitals and dissecting rooms,
eh?”
“Well, you are right. I did think your genius lay in
that direction, doctor.”
“Humph! I don't deny it, and still I enjoy this.”
“Come! the philosophy of your enjoyment, monsieur?”
“I am not a philosopher.”
“Well, you are the next remove—a physician.”
-- 136 --
[figure description] Page 136.[end figure description]
“I am, and in that capacity, I regard this fine assembly
as quite amusing. Look at the chandeliers—”
“Yes.”
“The laughing, sparkling, noisy crowd!”
“Very noisy.”
“Listen to the music,” continued Doctor Fossyl, with
his sardonic smile: “and mark the delight it gives!”
“Why, certainly—that is natural.”
“See that gay dance they are dancing yonder—look
at the bright faces, the moving forms, the sparkling eyes,
the rapid and excited motion.”
“I do.”
“It's a pretty dance of death, is it not?”
“A dance of death?”
“Come! do you pretend to be a scholar, and are yet
ignorant of the middle ages?”
“I don't pretend to be a scholar, but I have heard of
the dance of death. I only wish to know—”
“How this is such?”
“Yes.”
“You have only to look at that graceful skeleton,
yonder—waltzing.”
“Skeleton!”
“Yes,” said Doctor Fossyl, tapping his box, and
coolly taking snuff; “that gentleman has got heart-disease,
and in from ten to fifteen days from this time
he will be dead.”
“You are jesting.”
“Of course I am—I always am. Everything is a jest.
-- 137 --
[figure description] Page 137.[end figure description]
And one of the most amusing jests is the appearance here
of that young lady there, with the japonica in her hair.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I shall be called in at half-past seven
o'clock to-morrow morning, before I have eaten a mouthful
of breakfast, to draw a gallon more or less of blood
from that handsome arm, which is now raising the nosegay
up so gracefully, and that life and death will wrestle
over her body.”
“Death, doctor?”
“Certainly. She has had the most dangerous type of
inflammation of the bronchial tubes and lungs, for three
weeks, and I told her this morning, that if she came here
to-night, she would be attacked by pneumonia. What do
you think she said, in her little, mincing voice?”
Sansoucy shook his head in silence, gazing sadly at the
young girl.
“She said,” continued Doctor Fossyl, smiling, satirically,
“that I was a monster, a bug-bear, a spoil-sport; and that
even medicine was not seldom mistaken. How could she
miss the charming, the delightful ball, for which she had an
engagement. She talked so prettily that her father was
convinced that I am an ignoramus—a raw head and bloody
bones:—and an hour ago, I passed her coming in, in her
satin slippers, over the snow. Poor thing! poor thing!”
muttered the sallow cynic, almost inaudibly: but this expression
soon disappeared and the former satirical smile
returned.
Sansoucy was silent, and sad, for he had found too often
-- 138 --
[figure description] Page 138.[end figure description]
that the predictions of Doctor Fossyl, based upon profound
erudition, and life-long experience, were too apt to turn
out truly.
“I have a few more friends here,” said the doctor, offering
the snuff-box, which Sansoucy refused, “and I shall
probably be very busy for the next few months. The
Dance of Death is not so disagreeable a thing to us physicians
as the world imagines. An admirable spectacle!”
cried the cynic, whose yellow teeth appeared as he spoke
between his thin lips, “hear the music—ta! ta! ta! ta!—
like your favorite opera of Lucretia Borgia, which I remember
hearing when I was young and in love—just before
I was attacked with the measles. Don't you remember
the scene? The last, I think it is. They are all
revelling, drinking their wine, cracking their jokes, making
the walls ring with laughter. Wit, and merriment, and
jollity are supreme. But comes the invisible chorus.
Listen! always nearer, while the merriment grows madder—
always louder, though they do not hear it, under the flaming
chandelier, and clashing together their wine cups.
Listen! it is there at the door—terrible and mournful and
despairing like a death-wail—and then the doors glide
open, and the white phantoms enter, and a cold arm passes
round each reveller, and they glide away to where the row
of coffins wait for them. A pretty opera, is it not?”
And the cynic pointed with his fleshless finger to the
crowd.
There was something so sinister and coldly contemptuous
in the accents of the strange physician—his livid countenance
was so expressive of scorn, and satire of the bitterest
-- 139 -- p506-144
[figure description] Page 139.[end figure description]
description that, habituated as he was to the humors of
the speaker, Mr. Sansoucy remained silent, involuntarily,
with his eyes fixed upon his companion.
CHAPTER V. THE APPIAN WAY AND THE CATACOMBS.
But the emotion of the journalist soon passed: it is true
that he passed his handkerchief over his moist brows, but
that might very well have been caused by the heat of the
rooms.
“You have a terrible habit of analysis, doctor,” he said,
at length, “but you have also the fatal error in your calculation,
which puts all this in quite another light.”
“What error?”
“You regard life and happiness as the sworn foes of
pain and death.”
“Foes! are they not?”
“I don't know that I have put my idea in the right
words,” said Sansoucy, thoughtfully, “but it seems to me,
doctor, that there is something more—some greater happiness
than any earthly thing. If that be so, death is the
portal to the good and pure, by which they enter into this
larger happiness!”
For a moment the doctor looked at his companion with
a sort of disdainful surprise: then his former sardonic
smile returned.
-- 140 --
[figure description] Page 140.[end figure description]
“I thought you were a philosopher, and had rejected
these superstitions!” he said.
“Superstitions?”
“Yes—belief in another state of being.”
“Thank God I have done nothing of the sort. I am
neither an atheist, a pantheist, nor an infidel.”
“I am all three.”
“I am sorry,” said Sansoucy, coolly.
“Don't be sorry for me!” cried the physician, almost
scornfully, “be sorry for yourself—for the dominion which
this tradition still retains over your mind. It absolutely
makes me angry to see men of your intelligence taking up
with the miserable cant of the age, and rejecting those
noble lights of reason, Paine, Voltaire, Rousseau, and
Michelet.”
“I detect everywhere in Paine the poorest materialism,
and the narrowest range of thought,” said Sansoucy, bracing
himself for the struggle.
“Materialism!” said the physician, scornfully; “and
what of Voltaire?—perhaps you—”
“Do not admire that brilliant and wicked genius?
Well, no, doctor, I find in Voltaire, wit, political genius,
the revolt of intellect against feudality, and a heart like a
dry crucible. He was the type of the nation he has caricatured—
half-tiger and half-monkey.”
“And Rousseau—pray, what do you think of him?”
said Doctor Fossyl, curling his lip.
“I think he was a bad citizen and a depraved man,
who did not know his own obliquity of moral vision, and
thought the whole world squinted. As to Mr. Michelet,
-- --
[figure description] Illustration page.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]
-- 141 --
[figure description] Page 141.[end figure description]
who admires the `advent of justice,' which had such
pretty points in the Reign of Terror, and deifies the
philosophers of that corrupt age, I tell you frankly,
doctor, that his book makes me sick. He has refuted
his “French Revolution,” so often in his “History of
France,” that if his present philosophy were not repulsive,
it would be ludicrous.”
The doctor smiled disdainfully, and said; “Well, now
that you have got through your fine criticism, tell me
what more you have against these powerful geniuses than
your own ipse dixit—then we will weigh your respective
intellects.”
“I will submit to no such test. I reject it in
advance.”
“You reject it!”
“Always. I do not pretend to measure my intellect
against your friends, Rosseau and the rest—though I
could find in them the most lamentable discrepancies. I
reject absolutely, wholly, unhesitatingly, the philosophy
which submits these profoundly spiritual questions to the
test of a cold, unvarying, mathematical analysis. I refuse
to recognize the dry hard reason of the trained dialectician,
as the proper scales to weigh these matters of life
and death—of time and eternity.
`Sages prove that God is not,
But I still adore Him,'
sings the poet; and there I stop. I am content to say,
`I feel this.' There is my platform, doctor. The poor
human reason faints before these problems, and the heart
speaks as God intended it should.”
-- 142 --
[figure description] Page 142.[end figure description]
The physician looked at Sansoucy as if he had uttered
a fatuity which reason should disdain to combat for a
moment.
“And so you believe there is divinity in the vital principle,
do you?” he sneered.
“Yes.”
“That with the severed head, the pierced heart, this
principle departs, and goes to a larger universe?”
“Yes, doctor.”
“Poor human nature! how pitiable!” said the physician,
half to himself; “here is a man who has a clear
and accurate mind, an apprehensiveness really remarkable,
and his intellect is shackled still by the poorest
superstition.”
“What did you say, doctor?”
“I say, I wish to know if you label this package of
ideas, Faith or Reason?”
“The former, I trust.”
“Faith?”
“Yes.”
“Faith in what?”
“In God, immortality,—the atonement of Jesus
Christ.”
“You! you have this last weakness! the atonement!”
“If it is a weakness, doctor, I wish to live and die in
my deception.”
“A pretty faith! Why don't you act up to it?”
“Because I am human, and consequently weak.”
“Bah! and I suppose if I asserted that all men were
gods—”
-- 143 --
[figure description] Page 143.[end figure description]
“I should say there was one exception—myself—a
worm with a spark of divinity within me:—a light-worm,
which has in itself what the whole earth has not, and
must take from the sun—light!”
“A pretty reasoner! Why not unite yourself to the
Church?”
“I hope I shall, some day.”
“You would make a fine and consistent member!”
“That is a bitter taunt, doctor, but a very just one.”
I am not taunting you: you are no Christian.”
“That is true, doctor. But as far as my historical
faith goes, it is strong and complete.”
“What is it?”
“It would take me a month to present it.”
“One point, then!” said Doctor Fossyl, satirically.
“Well, here is one. A man named Jesus Christ,
appeared in Judea, a province of the Roman Empire,
about eighteen hundred years ago, did he not?”
“Granted.”
“He was a pure man, was he not?”
“Who knows certainly anything about it?”
“I will tell you. Jefferson, the pupil of the French
sceptical philosophers, said he was the sublimest philosopher
who ever existed, and that men would finally rank
him above Socrates.”
“Well?”
“Jean Paul Richtei, the greatest and mightiest
development of German intellect—greater than Goethe,
I think—although he was an infidel, almost worshipped
-- 144 --
[figure description] Page 144.[end figure description]
the moral purity and sublimity of Christ, and loved him
as the supreme type of human greatness and goodness.”
“Very well.”
“Well, this man, who is acknowledged to have been the
purest and most truthful of men, went about saying that
he was the promised Messiah, that every one was looking
for—you cannot question the historical fact of this
expectation in Palestine then—and he further said, and
that repeatedly, that he was the Son of God, equal with
the Father.”
“Your conclusion?”
“It is this. That if this supreme type of human
truth and purity, systematically uttered a falsehood, then
earth and heaven are a gigantic delusion, and the universe
a lie. Nothing is true—and existence is a mockery, a
degraded farce. That is my conclusion.”
“What a pretty syllogism you make. I suppose you
will say next that the spread of Christianity proves its
divine origin.”
“I have no hesitation in saying so.”
“Bah! what do you do with Mahomet, the impostor
and false prophet. I believe he founded a somewhat similar
affair which lasts still.
“Yes; but, my dear doctor, you are arguing very
weakly for a man of your perspicuity.”
“Weakly!”
“Yes; and I have only to point you to the two systems
to show you as much. Mahomet, with the Koran in his
left hand and the scimetar in his right, said to his wild
hordes, `Go forth in my name and conquer. If you are
-- 145 --
[figure description] Page 145.[end figure description]
victorious, the scimetar makes you lord of all the riches
of the earth, subjugates nations, and makes you conquerors
and princes. If you fall, the word of God is pledged to
you in this book, that you shall go to a paradise of murmuring
streams and verdurous plains—to the embrace of
beautiful houris, fairer than your dreams, and all the
ecstacies of sense, sublimated and made supernaturally
susceptible of bliss by the pure atmosphere of this sunny
paradise.' I think that I should have been a Mahommedan—
I wonder that all men, with this splendid bourne
for their dim yearnings, are not.”
“You had better become one.”
“No; but let me finish. I say that this was Mahomet's
creed—these his promises. What were those of Christ?
He said, `They have persecuted me, and they will also
persecute you. The time is coming when whoever kills
you will think he is doing God service; in the world you
shall have tribulation; while the world is rejoicing you
shall weep and lament; you shall be persecuted, beaten,
despised; you shall suffer hunger and thirst, and poverty
and nakedness; the world shall be your enemy, and shall
place its heel upon you. Remember all this, and then sell
your goods, leave your father and mother, sister and
brother, and wife and child, and follow me!' There is
the Christian and the Mahommedan system. Judge if the
spread of Mahommedanism was not natural—the spread
of Christianity supernatural!”
“Have you finished?” said Doctor Fossyl, with a curling
lip, “or have you any more philosophic contrasts?”
“Contrasts!” said Sansoucy. “You want contrasts,
-- 146 --
[figure description] Page 146.[end figure description]
Doctor? Well, I give you one more: see the difference
between Christian and anti-Christian deaths, and the epitaphs
upon their tombs. Would you see the pagan character
in a nut-shell? Go to the Appian Way at Rome—
that vast high-road of hewn stone, upon which the spoils
and captives of the world flowed into Rome, and her
legions thundered out—where the silken litters of courtezans
passed, on the backs of Nubian slaves—courtezans,
such as Messalina, the enchantress, Faustina, the Empress,
the sisters of the Emperor Commodus, and the most high-born
and beautiful daughters of Rome: the Appian Way,
where the witty and corrupt Horace waved his perfumed
hands, covered with rings; where the poor philosophies
of Greece were discussed by the glittering crowd of splendid
young patricians; where riotous pleasure reigned
supreme, the sole real god of that multitude, who, men
and women, given up to luxurious and sensual delights,
passed to and fro—a splendid and deplorable carnival—in
the eternal race for a new passion, an unknown excitement.
Cast your eyes upon this crowd, thronging the
Appian Way, and then pass across to the immense tombs
of Etruscan marble, where those who fainted in the carnival,
and were called away, laid down to rest—where the
millionaires of Rome cut their ostentation and their philosophy
in stone. Those tombs are there to-day—look at
the epitaphs. “To the shade of Claudius Secundus; on
earth he enjoyed everything—baths, wine and women: these
ruin the constitution, but they make life what it is. Farewell!”
Go a little further and you find another. “I came
from nothing—I return to what I was: my fortune will be
-- 147 --
[figure description] Page 147.[end figure description]
yours!” A step further and you find, “While I lived, I
lived well: my play is ended, yours will soon be—farewell
and applaud!” There is the pagan life and death, doctor:
life a passionate carnival of fiery and corroding lusts
and passions; death a hopeless and shuddering relapse,
as they thought, into eternal annihilation; for that man
never lived who went, as he believed, into the dust, without
a shudder, though, like the old Greeks, he might crown
himself with flowers, and distort his lips into a smile.
Well, close by all this galvanic excitement, while this gay
crowd flowed on, living for sense, and reaping its reward
of splendid misery and despair—all this, while the dark
Catacombs beneath their feet were filled with the believers
in what Tacitus called a `pernicious superstition”—with
Christians—the followers of an old man called Paul, who,
in hunger and thirst, in spite of stonings and stripes, and
the threats of a thousand enemies, had preached, and now
preached to them, what you may call, if you choose,
another philosophy only: the philosophy that those who
listened to him, and the glittering crowd of Roman patricians—
the courtezan passing above in her litter, and the
child kneeling at his feet—the Jew and the Greek—the
slave and the freedman—the rich and the poor—were all
under a supreme curse, from which only faith in Jesus
called the Christ, and crucified at Jerusalem, could preserve
them. This was the philosophy taught by Paul to
a few miserable and hunted outcasts, who knelt around
him in the dark dungeon of the Catacombs, and sang
their hymns of joy, and faith, and hope. When the beloved
eyes of some little child were closed by its mother's
-- 148 --
[figure description] Page 148.[end figure description]
kiss, or when some faithful spirit of the elders took its
flight, what was the spectacle? What were the epitaphs
which these Christians of the Catacombs placed upon the
sacred graves, while the solid earth overhead shook with
the thunder of splendid chariots, and the desperate orgies
of that revelling multitude, hastening to death and, as
they vainly thought, extinction? You know those epitaphs
well—but listen; listen how like angel-voices! like
sweet benedictions!—“Valeria sleeps in peace!”—some
little child, perhaps,—a tender flower, which Jesus took
from its mother's bosom to his own. “Florentius peacefully!”
“Vigilantius sleeps in Christ!” Sleeps, it may
be, after a long life of toil, and suffering, and agony—
perhaps after fighting as a gladiator in the amphitheatre,
or struggling breast to breast with wild beasts, at the
festivals: all, the child, the gladiator, the apostle, `sleep in
Christ,' awaiting his glorious coming. These are the
pagan and the Christian systems, Doctor—the infidel and
the believer—their lives and deaths. For myself, no word
of yours is necessary to tell me that I am little better than
that crowd upon the street above—that I resemble in
nothing the company beneath them. I lament and deplore,
sir, the truth of the charge, and I will try to change.
But one poor merit I have—a naked belief; and so conclusive
is this conviction with me, that a doubt of the
divine origin of Christianity seems to me monstrous—I
must say it—and the man who conscientiously believes the
system only a fiction, appears to me blind to that extent,
that a million of dazzling suns would be but darkness
to him!”
-- 149 --
[figure description] Page 149.[end figure description]
Sansoucy paused, and looked thoughtfully at the crowd;
then interrupting the physician, who was about to utter
one of his disdainful replies, he said:
“This is a singular conversation for a ball-room, doctor,
farce as you considered it. I am not a proper preacher
of Christianity, and I deeply regret that my faith is only
a speculative and historical faith, which does not guide my
life, now let us change the subject and talk about something
else. How is Joe Lacklitter? You saw him?”
“Yes,” growled the doctor, who seemed to be utterly
careless about any reply in words to his opponent, “he is
better.”
“Get him up as soon as possible, my dear doctor.”
“Very good—but you pay?”
“Yes.”
“I can trust you without a written obligation,” he
muttered.
Sansoucy looked at him with a smile; and his countenance
thus returned to its habitual expression of careless
good humor.
“I am much obliged to you: I hope any one in the
room would.”
“Butterflies!”
“Just now they were skeletons! Ah, my dear doctor,
you make a double blunder. They are neither—they are
men and women with a thousand good and bad qualities
going through their Life-Drama. There is Incledon—I
promised to meet him—good bye.”
The physician uttered a surly growl; and Sansoucy
disappeared in the undulating and uproarious crowd.
-- 150 -- p506-157
CHAPTER VI. PHILOSOPHY OF THE “DANCE. ”
[figure description] Page 150.[end figure description]
In a few moments, Sansoucy had joined Mr. Incledon,
who was conversing with some friends, and they exchanged
a smiling greeting.
“Well, here I am,” said Sansoucy, “in good health
and spirits.”
“You always are.”
“Nearly.”
“Are you prepared for the ordeal?”
“Your friends?”
“Yes.”
“I don't expect anything dreadful! Where are they?”
“In the next room.”
“Let us go there.”
They penetrated the crowd, and passing through, gained
the threshold of the next room.
“Here is a little dance going on,” said Sansoucy, “the
great spectacle of modern times—dancing.”
“Do you like it?”
“Do you mean waltzing?”
“If you choose.”
“Well, yes and no. I have no sister, or probably I
should have omitted the first part of my reply.”
“How carelessly you regard everything, Ernest.”
“Because everything is ridiculous—almost.”
“Somethings are serious.”
That is true.”
-- 151 --
[figure description] Page 151.[end figure description]
“And this abominable German usage we have imported—
the polka and the schottish too—seems to me just of that
description.”
“Ah? serious?
“Yes,” said Incledon, “is it not monstrous that a young
lady should stand here on this floor and permit a man—I
do not say a gentleman, for any one who procures an introduction
is insulted by a refusal—permit a man, a mere
stranger I say, to press her body to his own—his arm
around her waist—and this just in the fashion it may suit
him! Look at that couple whirling up to us! With the
merest motion of his head he might touch her lips with his
own—there they pass us! See her partner's arm! I am
not prudish, Sansoucy,” said Incledon, sternly, “but I
agree with a very bad authority, Lord Byron, that it is
revolting!”
“Revolting!”
“Yes: I know how ridiculous such `Puritanical' ideas
are thought — and that child yonder to whom I gave
sugar-plums last year, would twirl her fan, and look at me
with affected surprise if I would presume to say this dance
was objectionable. It is very outre, very prudish, very
severe, to find fault with the `harmless amusement' of
young people, I would be told, and then with a laugh, I
am dismissed.”
Sansoucy smiled, in his old way.
“What would you have, my dear friend?” he said, “we
must take the world as it is—Ca ira! What is the use of
being solemn? Those fascinating young ladies like to be
embraced in this pleasant way; and assuredly you would
-- 152 --
[figure description] Page 152.[end figure description]
not break their tender hearts, by interdicting this delightful
pastime! If the present season clings to the waltz,
don't you know that they will all waltz? If next year it is
the fashion to embrace with both arms, can't you comprehend
that many will find the amusement still more piquant,
and obey implicitly the fashionable dictum? They like it,
my dear Incledon, and instead of arguing upon the subject
in a heated way, why look at it as I do, philosophically.
These charming damsels like to be embraced;—
ask Mr. Fantish, yonder, and he will tell you that as the
music grows faster, and the arm tighter, they absolutely
laugh out their delight—why quarrel, then? The waltz
and polka present an `eligible opportunity' for this warm
interchange of feeling, and they embrace—it.”
Incledon's face had assumed so cold and haughty an
expression at the name of Fantish, that Sansoucy gazed at
him with curious interest; but this expression of coldness
soon passed, and Incledon said,
“I am sorry your philosophy is so careless, Ernest.”
“Careless?”
“You assuredly are.”
“Not at all.”
“You defend waltzing.”
“Not in the least.”
“Why this very moment—”
“Come, now, you are going to arraign me. I don't
defend it, my dear friend. I only observe that I have no
female relatives present.”
Incledon nodded.
“I am a sphynx—I speak in riddles as you know. I
-- 153 --
[figure description] Page 153.[end figure description]
mean that I have no sister, cousin, niece, or other charming
baggage here. If I had, I think I should issue my
orders—I beg pardon of the ladies—my requests—”
“Yes.”
“Not to waltz,” added Sansoucy. “I go with gentlemen
of Mr. Fantish's style upon that subject. When you
see the sister or cousin of a `fast man' waltzing, come
and tell me, and I will put it under the head of `notable
occurrences' in the Journal. No, my dear friend, I have
known some very eccentric gentlemen of fashion, and, but
for the fear of seeming harsh, I would say some very coarse
and disagreeable companions, but I have never known one
who liked his sister to waltz. Now we have been moralizing
enough, and I know I am telling you nothing new. Let
us get in. What a charming little Christian yonder.”
“Where?”
“Waltzing.”
“What a pity,” said Incledon.
“Pity? It's a shame!” said Sansoucy, but checking
himself, he added, “now I am growing moralist. Where
are your friends?”
“Over there,” said Incledon, gazing sadly at the excited
crowd, “let us get through.”
“That tall full lady?”
“Is one of them.”
“And the other.”
“There: come, let me introduce you.”
And Incledon smiled. As he did so, Sansoucy drew
back, almost blushing.
It was Aurelia.
-- 154 -- p506-161
CHAPTER VII. HOW SANSOUCY WAS DEFEATED BY MR. HEARTSEASE.
[figure description] Page 154.[end figure description]
Sansoucy's surprise lasted but for a moment, yielding
almost instantly to an expression of radiant delight. Advancing
quickly two steps, he imprisoned in his own both
hands of the young lady, and gazed with the ingenuous
smile of a boy into her blushing and smiling face.
Aurelia Ashton was a young girl of the freshest and
most delicate beauty, and the description of her appearance
as a child, might almost have suited her still. There
was the same kindness and sincerity in her countenance,
and the large blue eyes, and auburn hair, might have explained
the raptures of our friend; or at least caused them
to be regared with indulgence. There was one change,
however, and this soon made itself felt. Aurelia had grown
very gay, and a certain air of laughing stateliness still further
marked the changes her character had undergone.
Sansoucy found in place of a timid and affectionate
child, a lovely and brilliant young woman; and for a moment
a shadow of melancholy flitted across his brow. It
was not long before this disappeared, however, and the
happy smile came back in its full force.
“How glad I am to see you, Aurelia,” he said, still
holding her hand.
“And I to see you again, Mr. Sansoucy,” said Miss
Aurelia, ceasing to blush, and smiling.
“Mr. Sansoucy! Have we grown so formal?”
-- 155 --
[figure description] Page 155.[end figure description]
“What would you have me say?” she asked, releasing
her hand, with a smile.
“Call me by my old name,” he replied.
“How?”
“Ernest.”
The shadow of a little blush came again to Aurelia's
fresh face, and she replied:
“No, indeed, I will not, Monsieur, the travelled gentleman
and journalist.”
“Ah, you forget old times.”
“No.”
“When we were such friends.”
“Great friends. We were a great deal together when
we were children.”
“It was the happiest portion of my life.”
“Was it?”
“Yes, indeed!”
Aurelia made a little movement of her head, as much as
to say that this was a highly flattering and gratifying
announcement.
“Childhood is generally the most hopeful portion of
life,” she said, smiling.
Sansoucy looked sadly at her. Could she have meant
that any hopes he entertained were attributable to childish
mistake? This anxiety about the young girl's meaning
ought to have taught so acute a student of motive
causes as Mr. Sansoucy, that a highly inflammable
atmosphere existed in his heart, which was gradually
growing more and more so still.
“Let us speak like old friends, if nothing more,
-- 156 --
[figure description] Page 156.[end figure description]
Aurelia,” he said, with sad courtesy; “and if that name
is not proper in my mouth, I will change it. But do not
meet me as a stranger, whom it is necessary to address in
the stereotyped language of the ball room. Come, let us
talk frankly—we are old friends, are we not?”
“Oh, no doubt of it!” said Aurelia, laughing gaily
He sighed.
“Well, as we are friends, will you allow me to address
a reproach to you?”
“A dozen!”
He sighed again. It was plain that Miss Aurelia
Ashton was in excellent spirits.
“One will be enough—and it shall not be even a
reproach. When I returned from Europe, you met me
with constraint. Had I offended you?”
“Offended me? No, indeed!”
“Why then —?”
“Have answered you in monosyllables, and went out
while you were talking to my mother, and not returned—
do you mean, why did I perform all these naughty
things?”
“Yes,” he said, smiling.
“Because I was a school-girl,” she replied, with the
merriest laughter; “did you ever know one who did not
feel a terrible fear of being devoured by her visitors? I
was dreadfully afraid of you.”
“Is that a fair explanation?”
“As fair and honest—indeed it is—as anything I
could possibly say. Indeed you must pardon the
-- 157 --
[figure description] Page 157.[end figure description]
awkwardness of a child, who was just old enough to be
abashed in `company.”'
And with a smile and a sigh, Miss Aurelia gazed
frankly and kindly at her companion.
“Oh! that convinces me without another word, that
you are not jesting—your bright smile! How much you
are like yourself in old times, when you smile!”
“Am I?” she said, with another smile, full of softness
and sweetness.
“Yes, and I would have you always smiling. Tell me
when you reached town, and everything.”
“Everything is too comprehensive. But I have been
here a week.”
“A week!”
“Are you surprised?”
“Yes. It seems to me that there must have been
something in the atmosphere to indicate your presence—
see how poorly I turn my poor compliment.”
“Oh, how nice it is! I see the reports I have heard
of you are quite true.”
“What reports?”
“That you have become a terrible flatterer, and that
you boast of being able to win any woman's heart in six
weeks!”
“Who could have uttered such folly—or attributed to
me so silly a speech?” said Sansoucy.
“I shall not tell you, sir,” said Aurelia, laughing.
“Very well—but I never was guilty of the folly of
uttering it.”
Aurelia seemed to question the sincerity of Mr.
-- 158 --
[figure description] Page 158.[end figure description]
Sansoucy in this denial; but dismissed the subject by
saying:
“I was about to tell you that I have come to visit
cousin James—Mr. Ashton, you know. I shall certainly
expect you to call on me.”
“You will not be disappointed.”
“Are you sure you will not?”
“I?”
“I mean in me: you know I can't talk literature or
politics with your lordship.”
“Ah, you laugh at me! Do not be so unfriendly,
Aurelia—excuse me. We're old associations and habits!
Let us be, if not Ernest and Aurelia on the banks of the
old stream, at least not so indifferent.”
The warm blush which covered her face showed that
the old days had rushed to her memory in a moment.
“I hope we shall always be friends,” she said, laughing
and blushing, and looking more beautiful than his dreams
of her; “`in peace, friends,' you know.”
“Peace—?”
“Yes, we may declare war: I am growing very
unamiable.”
“Impossible! your sweetness of nature was your
greatest charm,” he said, sincerely and seriously.
“Thank you, sir! Then I had no others?”
“Many,” said Sansoucy, sighing at being repulsed
thus by Miss Aurelia's gayety, in every advance he made
toward the out-posts of tenderness. As he spoke the
young girl inclined her head to a gentleman who was
-- 159 --
[figure description] Page 159.[end figure description]
standing behind Mr. Sansoucy, and said, “Good evening,
Mr. Heartsease.”
“I trust my bow was a la mode, Miss Ashton,” lisped
a mild and languid voice. “Ah! how are you, Sansoucy,
my dear boy? charmed to see you!”
With which words Mr. Heartsease advanced into the
conversation. Who shall undertake to describe Heartsease,
the beau, Heartsease, the fop, Heartsease, the most
serious of butterflies, and the king of Epicurean philosophers!
Even his costume defies description. We may
say, indeed, that he wore the tightest of pantaloons, the
largest coat cuffs, the smallest patent-leather boots, and
the most enormous “tie:” but these things scarcely convey
any idea of Heartsease, that prince of pococurantes.
Words faint and fail before him, and from his dark
ambrosial hair an influence radiates, which paralyzes the
pen of the historian. When he glances at you with his
mild dark eyes, from his great height—for he is very tall—
you feel that not the hair and “tie,” and coat and
boots, and watch-chain, full of charms, are Heartsease.
There is behind this the real man, and he strolls still
through ball rooms, a mystery, a myth, almost a superstition.
Heartsease is always smiling, and languid without weakness—
and lisps. He says, now:
“What a charming spectacle, Miss Ashton. Would
any one believe that these were our finest girls. 'Pon my
word, they look like peasant girls in the operas.”
“Thank you, sir.”
-- 160 --
[figure description] Page 160.[end figure description]
“Those beautiful little dames—they always put me in a
good humor. I admire them so.”
“That is a very adroit addition to your former speech,
Mr. Heartsease.”
“Is n't it? I was admiring my own tact in producing
it at so short a notice.”
Everybody ended by laughing at Heartsease, and this
ceremony was now performed by Miss Aurelia very
heartily.
“You are to give the dresses to the poor, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I like the poor.”
“Do you?”
“Yes, very much.”
“Have you seen much of them?”
“Oh, yes—a great deal. In—a—novels.”
“Oh! not in reality?”
“I have never met any—out of novels.”
Having uttered this reply, Mr. Heartsease paused.
I know some in real life, Heartsease,” said Sansoucy,
smiling, “and I am going to make a request of our friend,
Miss Ashton.”
“Oh! what is it?” said Aurelia.
“That you will give your dress to a little protegè of
mine.”
“Indeed I will!”
“Thanks.”
“I forgot to ask—is it a girl? I hope so!”
“Scarcely a boy,” said Sansoucy, smiling.
-- 161 --
[figure description] Page 161.[end figure description]
“A boy!” said Heartsease, bowing approvingly, “a
boy!—not bad!—ha, ha!—very good!”
And having uttered this mild laugh, Heartsease played
with his “charms,” and gazed gravely at the crowd.
“I meant a grown woman,” Aurelia explained, with a
smile. “I like little girls best.”
“This is a little girl.”
“I am very glad,” said Aurelia, “will you please tell
her to come to cousin's and get it.”
“To-morrow morning, faithfully. And now, this little
piece of business being ended, come let us—”
“'Have the pleasure of dancing this cotillion, Miss Ashton?”
said Heartsease, interposing his head, with a gentle
smile.
Never had Mr. Sansoucy been so completely defeated
by the hostile fates. The words were actually “taken out
of his mouth,” to use the common saying; and Aurelia,
after a moment's hesitation, glided away.
Sansoucy watched her graceful form gliding through the
set, and seemed exceedingly dull to the elderly lady who
had come with Aurelia, and who had been conversing with
Mr. Incledon. As this lady is not to be a character of
our chronicle, we do not enter further on her feelings or
opinions. Sansoucy once or twice took his eyes from
Aurelia, to gaze with astonishment upon Incledon.
Why did his friend's brow cloud, and, in spite of the
most terrible efforts, his dark eyes flash with haughty fire?
Could the simple fact of his cousin Silvia's waltzing
with Mr. Fantish, cause this extreme exhibition of emotion?
Sansoucy gave the question up in despair, and returned
-- 162 -- p506-169
[figure description] Page 162.[end figure description]
like a true man to his own hopes and fears, and their
synonyme—Aurelia.
Mr. Heartsease seemed so much pleased with Miss
Aurelia's society, that he remained with her nearly the
whole of the evening. When Heartsease made the effort
he was very entertaining; and Aurelia seemed to enjoy
his society very much.
Mr. Sansoucy retired on that night with a variety of
feelings—and in his dreams he thought he saw Aurelia
open her arms toward him with an angelic look of tenderness
and goodness, like the picture, when suddenly a
gigantic butterfly swept up and bore her away between
his wings. To the reader such a fear seems wholly
groundless and superfluous under the circumstances. But
there was a circumstance which not even Mr. Sansoucy
knew—he was in love.
CHAPTER VI. HEARTSEASE CRITICISES MISS GOSYP AND THE BANKS.
With the bright morning sunlight shining on the snow,
all Mr. Sansoucy's fears, however, passed away, and he
laughed heartily as he tied his cravat at the mirror,
reflecting upon his dream and his jealousy.
“The truth is,” he muttered, with his careless smile,
“that I am by no means free from danger in that quarter;
and this proves it. What a strange influence these childish
sentiments retain over a man, and how difficult it is to
-- 163 --
[figure description] Page 163.[end figure description]
see the old, old face—however young it is—and not be
moved by it. As to Heartsease, let him be my rival in a
game which I have no idea of playing. I suppose I shall
go to see her, and we shall drive out together, and go to
the opera, and laugh and talk about old times, and be
`given to each other' duly by the world. Then some day
a little white enameled missive will be handed to me, and
I 'll read that Mrs. Ashton will be pleased to see me on
Thursday next, which invitation will be duly endorsed by
Miss Aurelia, and Mr. Heartsease, or some other. And
I 'll go, and smile, and jest, and find my `illusion' lighter
than the bride's white veil of that material, and come back,
and smoke, and work, and dream, and go my ways. So
wags the world!”
Having taken this highly philosophical and cheerful
view of things, Sansoucy finished his toilette, and went to
breakfast; and returning, set to work.
His article on the marriage of the emperor filled six
yellow slips, and blazed all over with the utmost gaiety
of humor. It was read next day with laughter by ten
thousand persons—after which it lit a number of cigars,
and passed away.
As Sansoucy finished the last line, a knock was heard,
and obedient to permission, a young being with a smutty
face came in, and uttered the words, “Copy, sir?”
“Who are you?” said Sansoucy.
“I'm the new boy, sir.”
“Ah, indeed?”
“Yes, sir. I bin runnin' errants—”
“Knight errands, perhaps?”
-- 164 --
[figure description] Page 164.[end figure description]
“No, sir; by day, sir: I greased the wheels and done
a heap o' things, and so they made me a devil, sir.”
“That was very just and proper,” said Sansoucy, “and
I congratulate you on your good fortune. There's the
copy.”
And so the young promoted went away.
Sansoucy lay back in his chair, and gazed at the snowy
roofs opposite, on which the cold, bright light was shining—
vainly attempting to make some impression on the frozen
crust.
“The fact is—” said the philosopher: but what the fact
was, remains to this day a profound mystery. As he spoke,
another step was heard ascending the stairs, and Mr. Sansoucy's
thoughts were diverted from Aurelia, by the
entrance of no less a personage than Mr. Heartsease!
Heartsease was in all the glory of his morning toilette—
his overcoat sleeves were heavy with velvet; his yellow
gloves were supernaturally tight; his cravat extended its
fringed bows to his shoulders on either side.
Heartsease was smiling and gay — he always was.
When he spoke, his drawl was more smiling than ever—
when he sat down, his shining boot was gaily extended
straight in front with graceful ease.
“Charmed to see you, my dear Sansoucy!” said Heartsease,
“how goes it, this fine morning, after the ball? But
I needn't ask you—you are as bright as a lark.”
“We young fellows, you know, Heartsease, always are,”
said Sansoucy, “come, what news?”
“Absolutely none. But do you know I begin to feel
deuced old?”
-- 165 --
[figure description] Page 165.[end figure description]
“No.”
“Fact: and during my tour, things seem to have
changed. But I am consoled at finding that everything
has greatly improved by my absence—of course I mean
during my absence.”
“Of course.”
“What a handsome ball, last night: I regretted, however,
seeing no new modes in the dresses. I'm glad we
went in our own—I like the new fashions—pantaloons
tighter—it shows the leg, you know.”
“Certainly,” said Sansoucy, leaning back, and surveying
the Heartsease legs, with deep admiration.
“In fact,” continued that gentleman, smiling, and
drawling, “we are a progressive nation. We carry to their
utmost possible development, all the novel ideas and sentiments,
which spring from an expanded and comprehensive
view of the reciprocal relations existing between men
and things! That's a fine sentence—I was struck with it
this morning, in reading the Palladium of Liberty, and
got it by heart.”
“It is equal to Macaulay—almost,” said Sansoucy,
smiling.
“Yes,” replied Heartsease, twirling his cane, “and I
regard the ball last night as a proof of it.”
“How so, my dear philosopher?” asked Mr. Sansoucy.
“Why, the girls.”
“The girls?”
“I mean their dresses.”
“What of their dresses?”
“So `finely demonstrative,' as I heard a friend say the
-- 166 --
[figure description] Page 166.[end figure description]
other day. The young ladies, he added, `are getting more
and more communicative.”'
“Bah! he's a cynic!”
“So he is.”
“To quarrel with a young lady for showing her
shoulders.”
“Abominable!”
“It would be as unreasonable for a man to find fault
with a girl for being `fast,”' said Sansoucy.
“Certainly, my dear Sansoucy; and that would be
ridiculous. Our two belles from—where are they from—
what state?—I don't know: but our belles last night
showed how ridiculous such criticisms are. I don't know
which was the fastest, but I rather think the maiden with
the japonica in her hair outstripped the other.”
And Heartsease gently smiled.
“Bah!” cried Sansoucy, “what an improper speech;
and the worst of it is that such speeches are constantly
made without young ladies knowing it. Besides it's not
original.”
“Not original?” said Heartsease, with an innocent air.
“No: it's in the Journal of last week.”
“Well, it's good: but we are getting away from the
ball.”
“So we are.”
“You enjoyed yourself?”
“Yes, my dear Sansoucy, I always do for that matter.
My friends were as kind as any reasonable man could possibly
desire.”
“Were they?”
-- 167 --
[figure description] Page 167.[end figure description]
“Quite: and I was overwhelmed with congratulations
on my safe return. There was one thing, however, which
gravelled me.”
“And that?”
“That was the attack made upon me, by Miss Gosyp.
You know the antediluvian, Miss Gosyp? She actually
introduced herself to me, winter before last, by an unfavorable
commentary on my shirt studs. She assailed me
again, last night, with a criticism of my waistcoat.”
“What was the result?”
“Why, there is an end to human patience, like all other
things of this world, as I have somewhere seen it
remarked. And yet, will you believe me, my dear fellow,
I was paralyzed by that abominable woman—driven to
frenzy, and loss of temper. All I could do was to smile,
and ask her if a young lady, who came with her, was her
neice—and so we parted.”
“What a terrible and heartless attack, Heartsease!”
“Wasn't it? But revenge is fair. What do you think
she said to me last winter?”
“I can't guess.”
“Why, she squeezed my hand, in a friendly way, and
whispered, `You are the hope of America—”'
“You don't quarrel with that?”
“Listen—she added with an affectionate and winning
smile—`the hope against hope.' And then she nodded
and left me. It made me melancholy for a week, and I
have only regained my spirits since I have got revenge!”
Sansoucy applauded this happy consummation, and
said:
-- 168 --
[figure description] Page 168.[end figure description]
“All your friends, however, are not so severe?”
“Oh, no!—almost everybody has been pleased to see
me—particularly fellows I owe money to.”
“Ah?”
“Yes: and I now perceive the truth of a remark made
lately by a friend of mine—that nobody takes any interest
in a man who don't owe money. I remember when my
governor took me to the watering places, a long while
ago—when I was a young fellow—that scarcely anybody
took the trouble to enquire how I had been, on my
return. Now it is different, my dear fellow—the solicitude
about my welfare is most flattering. I met my coat-artist
the other day, and he was quite warm in his
congratulations, enquiring, as we walked on, about all
the fashions I had seen, and, as I owe him a pretty little
amount, he seemed rejoiced to see me. The fact is, my
dear boy, if you owe money, you are a gentleman, and a
man of consequence—the more you owe the better, for all
the more interest is taken in your welfare. I know that
my aforesaid coat-artist, and the rest of my friends, are
glad to find me back again, looking well and hearty;
they like to see me smiling, and well-dressed, promenading
in the afternoon, and are anxious to keep up friendly
relations with me.”
“Nothing could be more philosophical,” said Sansoucy.
“I think so,” continued Heartsease; “now if I looked
seedy, and had a long face, they would regret it, and call
on me to inquire about my health—possibly just recollecting
their little bill, and bringing it along to save the
trouble of another call. This would distress them, and,
-- 169 --
[figure description] Page 169.[end figure description]
consequently, they rejoice to see me looking gay and well
pleased with myself, and everybody: and take pleasure
in waving their hands to me as I stroll along in my new
coat sent home on Saturday. If they miss me in my
accustomed walk, they are grieved, and institute enquiries
as to my whereabouts. If I leave town, they are more
interested still, and express sincere anxiety lest I should
grow pleased with some other place of residence, and not
return. When I reappear, they meet me with smiles and
congratulations, as I have said—and all this good feeling
and popularity, I attribute to the interest taken in me as
a money-owing man. I do, indeed!”
And Mr. Heartsease contemplated the end of a cigar
he had lit, with smiling interest.
“You reason like a philosopher, Heartsease,” said Mr.
Sansoucy: “and I bow to your views. There is only
one objection that I see to your philosophy.”
“What is that?”
“Your coat-artist may be poor.”
“Poor?”
“Yes: and his children may rely for bread upon their
father's labor.”
“His children?—ah—yes.”
“And the money-owing general favorite may be the
cause of their having none of this necessary of life.”
“Why, that is true—strange it never occured to me,”
said Mr. Heartsease, reflecting, with much interest, upon
the new view thus presented to him.
“Therefore,” said Sansoucy: “it seems to me better
-- 170 --
[figure description] Page 170.[end figure description]
not to be in debt—and if it is a necessity of human
existence—”
“It certainly is, my boy.”
“Why, choose your creditors from other walks. If
absolutely essential to existence, get the money, and make
the Banks come to your relief.”
“The Banks?”
“Certainly.”
“That reminds me that I couldn't get a discount yesterday.
There is that collection of pictures going at an
awful sacrifice, and that institution yonder, positively
refused to let me have some money, though I took the
pains to explain my situation to the president.”
“Absolutely heartless!”
“Wasn't it?”
“What will you do?”
“Why, go to my friends, the Jews. I have set my
heart especially upon a portrait of Count D'Orsay, and a
Psyche, which I am going to present to that charming
Miss Ashton.”
“Oh, indeed!”
“Is n't she exquisite?”
“Very.”
“Do you know, my dear fellow, I half think of paying
my addresses in that quarter. I have had some encouragement.”
“What! encouragement?”
“You seem surprised, but why should you be? Answer
me candidly, my dear boy; am I a monster?”
Mr. Heartsease accompanied this question by a
-- 171 --
[figure description] Page 171.[end figure description]
caressing movement of his hand around his chin, so self-satisfied
and complacent in its way, that Sansoucy began to laugh.
“You are a perfect star of fashion, my dear Heartsease,”
he said, “and doubtless you might have good fortune; why
not try? Miss Ashton is a prize worth having—and that
reminds me that I engaged to send somebody to her this
morning. Will you stay and smoke? I must set about
my engagement.”
And Sansoucy, suddenly thinking of Ellie and his
promise, rose.
“No, I have an engagement too, my boy. Come, and
see me: What! so busy that you can't?”
“I am up to my eyes.”
“Well, let us trust to luck. I shall go up and see Miss
Ashton—ta la!”
And Heartsease kissed his fingers, and strolled out and
down the street.
“There goes the most perfect butterfly of our times,”
said Sansoucy, smiling, as he donned his overcoat, “a
man who believes life was made to trifle in—time made
to be `killed,'—and everything else to be laughed at. I
am a careless man, but I should shudder did I believe my
character was growing into such a mould. Life is a
battle-field, not a flower-garden. Let me go now and
forget Monsieur Heartsease, in the presence of my valiant
little `soldier and servant.”'
And putting on his gloves, the journalist went out and
descended the stairs, and issued forth into the cold, bleak,
brilliant streets, which glittered as though decorated with
a thousand icicles.
-- 172 -- p506-179
CHAPTER IX. CONTAINS A CHARCOAL SKETCH OF CAPTAIN TARNISH.
[figure description] Page 172.[end figure description]
A French proverb avers, that although a man may
know the exact time he sets out, he cannot know when he
will arrive. Mr. Sansoucy found this true, and we shall
proceed to show in what manner. This will involve a
brief and hasty sketch of a new figure, in addition to
those which already occupy our canvas; and scarcely one
which is calculated to improve and exalt our opinion of
humanity. But why should our attention be confined to
the beautiful flowers, and the noble and straight trees, to
the exclusion of the weeds and stunted undergrowth? All
is human, and why not look at them, and weigh them?
The best man has something in his nature which would be
apt not to please himself or his acquaintances, if it were
laid open to the light; and the worst characters have
doubtless tender points, where the sting of conscience still
penetrates, making them human.
Captain Tarnish, who met and stopped to talk with
Mr. Sansoucy, was a gentleman of unprepossessing
appearance, though, undoubtedly, what is called by ladies
a “fine looking man.” He had the longest and handsomest
black moustache which any gentleman “about
town” could boast, he swaggered when he walked, and
wore a bran new suit, decidedly military in its cut and
buttons. He carried a gold-headed cane, and his rich
waistcoat resembled an emerald lawn, across which a
stream of gold meanders—this comparison being
-- 173 --
[figure description] Page 173.[end figure description]
suggested to the historian by his massive and brilliant watch
chain. The Captain wore further, a hat which fairly
dazzled the eyes, it was so glossy; and his somewhat
large hands were decorated with numerous rings, which
probably made his purple kid gloves a misery to put on
or off. He had served formerly in the army, and “when
I was in the service” generally preceded his narratives of
gay adventures in foreign capitals, and under other skies.
He had broken many hearts in those places, and had evidently
been a very dangerous character to the fair sex.
Husbands, indeed, had frequently fallen victims to his
prowess, and with the code of honor he was so familiar,
that his authority was supreme with all young gentlemen
who paid allegiance to that gentlemanly and respectable
tradition. The Captain was accustomed, indeed, to speak
carelessly and incidentally of “my pistols,” and to make
the duels of the day his prominent subject of discourse.
You experienced a sensation of respectful admiration as
you listened to his views upon these topics; and were
generally impressed with the idea that Captain Tarnish
was a dangerous fellow at ten paces—which might possibly
have been the precise opinion intended to be produced
by the Captain. Add to this, that Captain Tarnish
frequented billiard rooms, the shooting gallery—before
which he stopped Sansoucy—and a number of saloons
where stimulating drinks were vended, and our sketch is
quite complete enough for all our purposes.
“Why, where the devil are you driving so, Mr. Sansoucy?”
said the Captain, with a genteel carelessness;
“saw you at the ball last night.”
-- 174 --
[figure description] Page 174.[end figure description]
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“It was very handsome.
“So it was, only I didn't see many of my friends
there.”
“No?” said Sansoucy, laughing; “is it possible?”
“I did not, and it is possible,” said Captain Tarnish,
with a side-look at Sansoucy; for it was the impression
of this gentleman that everybody was hostile to him.
“That's a very unfortunate circumstance,” said Sansoucy;
“one don't enjoy himself when he knows nobody.
But you mean among the ladies?”
“Yes, sir. Among the men I knew a plenty of
fellows.”
“Ah! Captain! permit me to express the opinion that
perhaps you are only half-mistaken in your views. The
ladies knew you, whether you knew them or not—why
that mustache of yours is `killing.”'
“I flatter myself it's not bad,” said the Captain, looking
dignified.
“Bad! I should say not! It is splendid—only it's
dyed, you know,” said Sansoucy, laughing.
“Dyed!”
“Certainly it is.”
The Captain assumed a terrific frown, and said
sternly:
“Mr. Sansoucy!”
“Eh?”
And Sansoucy contemplated the Captain's countenance
with smiling curiosity and interest.
-- 175 --
[figure description] Page 175.[end figure description]
“I mean to assert, sir, that my mustache is not dyed.
I am surprised at such an assertion on your part, sir.”
“No? Are you really? But then, you know, you
must have dyed it some time since, for it was brown—ha!
ha! Well now, my dear Captain, as we have dismissed
this subject of the mustache, let us talk of more important
things, or rather, don't let us talk at all, for I must get
on”
“Mr. Sansoucy!” said Captain Tarnish, with an
ominous frown: “do you shoot?”
“Shoot? Shoot what? Folly as it flies? Certainly,
my dear Captain.”
“I mean pistols, sir!”
“Why, certainly,” said Sansoucy, smiling. “Have
you never seen me at the gallery, there?”
“No, sir!”
“Possible?”
“No, sir: and if perfectly agreeable to yourself—good
morning, Fantish! This gentleman and myself are talking
about shooting.”
“Ah?” said Mr. Fantish, who had come up behind
Sansoucy, and now interchanged a distant greeting with
that gentleman; “and what is the point at issue?”
“Our respective skill?”
“Does Mr. Sansoucy know,” said Mr. Fantish, in his
satirical and sneering voice: “that you are the king of
fencers and marksmen, my dear Captain. He shows a
great deal of courage by calling your skill in question.”
“I do not boast,” said Captain Tarnish, arrogantly.
“Oh, no,” said Sansoucy, magnanimously.
-- 176 --
[figure description] Page 176.[end figure description]
“But I believe it is conceded in the city of New
Orleans, sir, that I was more than a match for Labordere,
the French marksman. A little affair grew out of
it, and he received a ball through his shoulder for his
pains.”
“A duel?” said Sansoucy, with lively interest
“Yes, sir! a duel: and it was not my first affair. I
hold myself at all times responsible,” said Captain Tarnish,
grandly: “and consider myself entitled to the privilege
of holding others. I shot Labordere, as I said, sir,
and I mentioned this slight incident to remark, that I told
him beforehand I should strike him in that exact spot, in
the joint of the shoulder, between the bones. When the
ball was extracted, half was found flattened on one bone,
and half on the other!”
“I hope his arm was saved,” said Sansoucy.
“No, it was not, sir; it was amputated and lost.
“The thing was kind in you.”
“Kind!”
“Yes, my dear captain—you know you might have
taken his life.”
“I might, sir—as I did that of Señor Bocca, in
Naples.”
“I have never heard that particular story, Captain.”
“Do you desire to, sir?”
“Well, I have no objection—”
“Señor Bocca insulted me one evening in a cafè—”
“You forget, it was in Paris.”
“No, sir, in Naples.”
“Good: go on: I thought from the word cafè—”
-- 177 --
[figure description] Page 177.[end figure description]
“Well, sir, if I am permitted to proceed—I was insulted
by Bocca in a cafe. He said in the Italian lauguage that
my coat was too long in the skirt—this to a friend. I
challenged him, and killed him!”
“Is it possible!”
“Yes, sir—it is. He sent a private agent to me, and
offered me one-half of his magnificent fortune, and his
daughter Julia, in marriage, if I would sign a paper, and
publish it, declaring that the quarrel was amicably adjusted,
and in a manner highly honorable to himself.”
“You refused—?”
“Yes, sir! He brought his daughter with him finally,
and they both fell upon their knees, and besought me to
have mercy.”
“And you were unmoved?”
“I was: my honor was involved; and, though the
Senorita Julia was the picture of the Venus de Medici, I
was unmoved. I had my duty to perform, and I performed
it. I insisted on my rights, and I met the man
who had assaulted my honor, on the next morning, and I
shot him, sir!”
Sansoucy regarded the captain with a species of respectful
admiration, and said:
“Did you ever meet any of the poor fellow's relations in
your Spanish travels, captain?”
“His relations!”
“You said Señor, and I naturally supposed that he was
Spanish. Signor, you know, would have been his designation
in Italy.”
-- 178 --
[figure description] Page 178.[end figure description]
Captain Tarnish frowned, and stroked his mustache
with a menacing air.
“Señor, or Signor, I shot him at ten paces, sir!” he
said, “and I am not out of practice!”
“No?”
“I am not, sir!”
“But at ten paces,” said Sansoucy, “you know it is so
easy.”
“Easy!—to do what, sir?”
“To strike so large an object as a man.”
“Easy, sir!” repeated the captain, with threatening
emphasis.
“Why, certainly!”
“Can you, sir—?”
“Strike you at ten paces? Yes,” said Sansoucy, with
an engaging smile, “your watch-chain alone, captain,
would make it easy for a child to strike you.”
Captain Tarnish was so astounded, or pretended to be
so astounded, by this observation, that he made not the
least reply.
“I could easily prove to you, that I am not boasting,
my dear captain,” said Sansoucy, “but where would be
the advantage? It would only mortify you to show you
that I am a much better shot than you—but if you still
doubt it, I will come up there some day and show you
how to turn an ace of clubs, into a ten—I have frequently
done it. Pshaw! my dear captain, you are a tyro in
shooting, and I will take you as my pupil. At present, I
must get on—retreat—retire—abandon my ground and
my boasts. I have an engagement, which even your
-- 179 --
[figure description] Page 179.[end figure description]
fascinating society, and that of your pistols, can't make me
neglect. Good morning, gentlemen.”
Having uttered which words, with a suppressed chuckle
at the expression of the captain's countenance, Sansoucy,
buttoned his coat and set forward again toward the abode
of Joe Lacklitter and Ellie.
“What a disagreeable animal the captain is becoming,”
he said, carelessly, “he is absolutely growing intolerable.
These men stalk about the community, twirl their mustaches,
and talk about `my duelling-pistols,' until they
really make one sick of their cant. If there was a spark
of animal courage in that great lubber, it would not be so
bad; but he is absolutely and entirely deficient in that
somewhat common quality, and endeavors to hide the fact
by eternally asserting his heroism. I don't believe the
story about his New Orleans Frenchman—I consider
his Neapolitan romance almost amusing: I deduce from
these narratives, not the conclusion that Captain Tarnish
is a terrible fellow, but that his Lordship is a sneak.
Ancient Pistol is not dead, and one might laugh at these
gentlemen, if they were not guilty of things which are far
from being laughable. There is Tarnish, who does not
believe in any of the traits which make the character we
call gentleman; and he has as little faith in anything like
purity in women. He would ruin a child, as carelessly as
he would cheat at cards—the only difference being that in
one case he would be kicked out, in the other, be exterminated
as one of those dirty vermin of society, who are
trodden out by those they have outraged, as a spider is,—
leaving a most detestable odor behind them. They laugh
-- 180 -- p506-187
[figure description] Page 180.[end figure description]
in the sunshine meanwhile, and I absolutely believe this
great bully and coward—I am sure he is—considered me
a dupe to his fine boastings. Bah! how disagreeable he
is, and I almost regret that I have soiled my mind with
his voice. How can we prevent it, however? We meet
these men everywhere—cynics whisper that the ladies admire
them, and fall into a delightful flutter when they
speak of their adventures. Men like this Mr. Fantish
walk arm-in-arm with them—though, faith! I think Mr.
Fantish is scarcely capable of being soiled. Well, the race
of Tarnishes will proceed upon their way, I suppose, and
boast, and swagger, utter falsehoods and menaces, and
play their parts and be rewarded duly. Let me not judge
them—but try to play a worthier role myself. I think the
sight of Ellie will relieve me of my spleen!”
So having arrived at this happy conclusion, Mr. Sansoucy
stopped thinking and muttering, and went on with
a cheerful smile.
CHAPTER X. MR. SANSOUCY DESCENDS INTO LOW LIFE AND MAKES HIMSELF AGREEABLE.
From the scenes in which figure Doctor Fossyl, Heartsease,
Captain Tarnish, and the other “good society” personage
of this history, the winter passes with much pleasure
to that humbler and quite different sphere, illustrated
by the virtues and tenderness of Ellie, and the kindness
-- 181 --
[figure description] Page 181.[end figure description]
and hearty goodness of the poor. Not without pleasure
does he turn even to the consideration of Aunt Phillis,
that best of Africans, and prospectively to those other
characters, Captain Schminky and his mysterious foe,
“Sam”—or as his intimates were in the habit of styling
him, “Wide-Awake.”
'Tis a pity that in real life we so seldom take these excursions
into the abodes of the poor; and that this ignorance
causes us to lose a thousand beautiful spectacles and
valuable lessons which ever rise like rainbows over that
bitter gulf called Poverty. Could we banish for a time the
habitudes which shape our lives, and casting aside the
schemes and pleasures which absorb us, seek this strange
life in its remote haunts, the admirable and touching scenes
which would reward us, might do much to show us what
the Saviour meant, when he said, “the poor you have
always with you.”
For a time, then, let us return to Ellie and her associates,
who live with much difficulty that life, whose
philosophy we have heard discussed in theory. Since we
last stood in the presence of Joe Lacklitter, nearly a
month, as we have said, has passed. That month has
made many changes in the situation of Uncle Joe and
Ellie. They no longer occupy the hovel in which they
then lived. Mr. Sansoucy has faithfully performed the
promise he gave Ellie, and they now occupy two small
and comfortable rooms in the large dilapidated dwelling,
in the basement of which Aunt Phillis plies her trade of
washerwoman and ironer.
This old house is one of a class which must have
-- 182 --
[figure description] Page 182.[end figure description]
frequently attracted the attention of the reader, if he is of
an observant and curious turn of mind, for such edifices
are found indifferently in all cities of the old and new
world. Occupied first by the family of its owner, it had
advanced through its first stage of existence as a respectable
dwelling-house, with tall mantel-pieces, huge old
staircases, and carved balustrades, down which the young
of several generations had slided gaily, making the old
walls ring with laughter. Then, like all human things,
the old house changed. The town moved away, and
spread itself abroad in verdant pastures, and over forest
slopes; and trade took up its abode where domestic life
had so long reigned. The front door was widened, the
partitions were knocked down, the floors pierced by square
openings, through which passed ropes with pullies up and
down, and from the eaves a sort of dormer-window roof
protruded, from which hung a dozen ropes, used to raise
barrels and all species of produce. The second era of
the building lasted longer than the first—but gradually
this, too, passed away. The floors became shaky beneath
the great piles of barrels, the plaster crumbled, the roof
let in some rain; and the enterprising firm who did
business there abandoned it, and went away to their new
granite front; and the question occurred to the proprietor,
what use could be made of the old edifice? But one
thing remained—to convert it into a sort of lodging house
for poor families, and this was accordingly done by
restoring the partitions, nailing up the floors, and fastening
some new shingles on the roof.
When we find ourselves before the old house, it has
-- 183 --
[figure description] Page 183.[end figure description]
been occupied for this last named purpose many years.
The new shingles are quite as old-looking as the rest—the
stairway is full of cobwebs—the floors are rotten, and
shake. Let us ascend. We are in Joe Lacklitter's
room.
Joe has profited by the attendance of Doctor Fossyl,
and sits up now in an old easy chair, prepared by Ellie
There are a few additions to his former scant and poor
furniture, and a small but comfortable fire burns in the
wide, old rusty fire-place. Opposite to the invalid sits
Charley, woefully inclining his feet, as though from habit,
over the fire; and in one corner of the room sits Ellie.
The cold wind sweeps around the tottering old house,
and the chill glare of snow falls through the window.
The invalid draws the blanket closer around his shoulders
as the wind whistles beneath the door, and puts a brand
upon the fire. As he stoops to do this, Ellie rises quickly
and comes to his assistance, with the sweetest smile which
anybody can imagine, and makes up the fire in a moment.
As she rises, her brown hair falls around her face, so
tender and pure, and her deep blue eyes dwell upon the
invalid's face with a softness and love which makes her
countenance inexpressibly beautiful.
With her uncle's improved health, Ellie seems to be
regularly recovering her spirits, and her smile possesses
no longer that uncomplaining sadness which made it so
touching during his illness. Her cheeks are not so thin,
and when she goes back to her work in the corner, she
sets about it with the most delightful little housewife-air
that you ever saw in all your life.
-- 184 --
[figure description] Page 184.[end figure description]
The invalid looks in the fire, smiling faintly; Charley
inserts the little finger of his left hand into the right corner
of his mouth; and Ellie sets to work most assiduously
upon some garment she is making.
The silence continues for some time, when a step is
heard ascending the stairs, and Ellie's face rises from her
work, the needle is poised in her hand, and she listens.
The step continues to ascend, and a happy color comes
into the child's cheek: with the marvellous instinct of love
and gratitude, she has recognized that step, and when a
knock is heard, she no longer thinks of her work, but,
throwing it down, runs to open the mouldy old door.
Mr. Sansoucy enters, smiling—and Ellie in a moment
has taken his hat, and set a chair for him, and is standing
gazing at him, with tears of pleasure and gratitude in her
eyes, which make them swim in happy light.
“Well, Joe,” says Mr. Sansoucy, “how are you to-day?
As to asking this young lady how she is, I have not the
least intention of making a goose of myself. She is
distressingly well, and in good spirits—eh, madam?—but
how are you, Joe?”
“I 'm a deal better, sir. I 'm beholden to you for
everything; and its like your kindness to call.”
“Like my kindness? Bother! where is any kindness?”
“Comin' to see a poor sick creature like me.”
“I wonder if I didn't want exercise 'on this fine morning?”
“I dunno' any another gentleman would a' come through
the snow to see poor Joe Lacklitter, sich a day, sir.”
-- 185 --
[figure description] Page 185.[end figure description]
“It's nothing to me whether you know any such man,
or not—here I am: and I am glad to see you all, even
down to that scarecrow, who is putting his foot in the
fire. Stop, sir!” added Mr. Sansoucy to Charley, who
drew back, thunderstruck, at this terrible address.
“I called this morning scarcely to do more than
inquire how you are,” continued Mr. Sansoucy; “have
you seen Doctor Fossyl to-day?”
“Yes, sir—he's jist gone.”
“A great bear!”
“He's rough, sir, but he's done me a deal o' good.”
“Has he? Well I'm glad of that. I can give you
that much assistance, at any rate.”
“Oh, sir! you're too good all along.”
“Come! no compliments, Joe. I can wish you health
and happiness, and I can send my physician down. That
don't cost anything—physicians are an admirable set of
fellows, for they scarcely ever ask for money. But
beyond this I can't do much. If I was only a millionaire!”
“Yes, sir,” said Joe, smiling weakly.
“But I am not, unfortunately,” continued Sansoucy;
“I am editor and poet—consequently I reside in a
garret, and feed chiefly on the sweets of fancy. It is
unfortunate that you are not a poet, Joe Lacklitter.”
“Me, sir!”
“Yes: for then you might imagine that you were a
hearty young fellow, with all the illusions and romance of
youth, strolling after a splendid dinner, with some angel,
through the woods of fancy—and that sort of thing. Now
-- 186 --
[figure description] Page 186.[end figure description]
—there you are again, sir!” added Sansoucy, with indignation,
to Charley; “there you are, putting your toes
into that blaze! A pretty sight you'll be with burnt
toes, won't you!”
Charley was too completely overwhelmed by this
terrific apostrophe, to reply to the interrogatory addressed
to him. He quailed before the eye of Mr. Sansoucy, and
with a movement of helpless awe, removed the little finger
of his left hand from the right corner of his mouth, and
inserted the same finger of his right hand in the left
corner.
“Never mind, Joe, you will be a jolly young fellow
yet,” continued Mr. Sansoucy, regarding Charley with
cruel triumph: “and this young woman, here, will help
you to get about again.”
“Ellie, sir? she's a dear good girl, sir—the Lord
bless her—a good child—so's Charley. Yes, sir, a good
girl!”
“Does Ellie go to school ever, Joe?”
“No, sir: it takes a power o' money to git schoolin'.
But if the Lord spares me, she shall—and Charley too.”
“I will take that boy to my Ragged School!”
Charley, who had been extending his toes toward the
blaze again, from habit, drew them back with dreadful
apprehension, when the eye of Mr. Sansoucy rested on
him.
“Your Ragged School, sir?”
“Yes: I teach.”
“Oh, you are so good, sir!—so good and kind!” said
the low voice of Ellie; and turning toward the voice,
-- 187 --
[figure description] Page 187.[end figure description]
Mr. Sansoucy saw two blue eyes fixed timidly on his
face, and filled with such a wealth of sweetness and
gratitude, that he paused involuntarily, and gazed at the
child as he would have done upon a touching picture.
“Good, Ellie!” he said at last, with a low sigh; “no,
indeed, my child, you are very much mistaken. I am
very far from being good, and these things are no proof
of it. It is a selfish thing with me—it amuses and entertains
me. I learn there and elsewhere much more
than I teach.”
And he looked for a moment so kindly and sadly at
Ellie, that his countenance was scarcely recognizable as
the same careless face it had been but an instant before.
The expression passed, however, and he said, with his old
smile:
“Wouldn't you like to go to school, madam—and have
a carriage and horses—and silver have to spare, as the
poet says?”
“Oh, no, sir!—but I'd like to go to Sunday School,”
said Ellie.
“Did you never go?”
“A little, once, sir.”
“And why did you stop, Ellie?”
Ellie hesitated, and a slight color came into her
cheeks.
“Because—I did not like to—the other scholars were
neat, sir—and uncle said—indeed I would have gone,
sir—”
And Ellie stopped. She could not bear to seem to
beg. But Mr. Sansoucy understood at once.
-- 188 --
[figure description] Page 188.[end figure description]
“Ragged!” he cried; “I knew it was ragged! In a
Christian land young ladies throw away dresses half
worn, when these little ones need them! Now Ellie,
listen to me! I have a friend who has made me a singular
present. Can you guess what it is?”
Ellie smiled, and said:
“I'm afraid not, sir—a present?”
“Yes, and I do not know what to do with it. She is
so good and soft-hearted, that I really have not the heart
to refuse to accept it. But what can I do with it?”
Mr. Sansoucy enjoyed Ellie's perplexity, and said:
“It's a dress!”
“A dress, sir?”
“Yes, indeed!”
“A lady gave you a dress?” said Ellie, smiling.
“Precisely—and I'm not jesting. I give it to you.”
“Oh, sir—indeed, indeed, I'd rather not—please do
not think I meant to ask you for anything; you have
been so good—”
“That's enough, my little friend. I am determined
you shall have it, and you shall. Do you understand that,
child?”
Ellie bowed her head, and said not a word.
“It is at Mrs. Ashton's, and you are to go there for it
this morning,” continued Mr. Sansoucy. “What are you
making there?”
“Some shirts, sir,” said Ellie.
“For whom?”
“Mrs. Brown, sir!”
-- 189 --
[figure description] Page 189.[end figure description]
“You shall make me a whole set when they are finished,
and I will pay you just at any moment you `draw”'—
“Oh, sir! I will be so glad! If you will only let me
do them for nothing. I would work all night for you.”
“And I should quarrel all day! No, Ellie: I know
you work well, and I will pay you well. Now get your
bonnet and shawl, and go up at once for your dress. You
think I am jesting.”
“Oh, no, sir.”
And Ellie went with childlike obedience, and got the
old shawl that Mr. Sansoucy had made her keep: the
shawl was wrapped well around her, and the old wadded
bonnet tied around her chin, and she looked quite
comfortable.
“I am going part of the way with Ellie, Joe,” said Mr.
Sansoucy, “and I'll try and come down and see you in a
day or two. There is what I promised to advance to you
for support during your sickness. You're a handy fellow,
and I have no doubt about the repayment. There! no
thanks! You'll be well by Christmas, and we'll go to
church—children and all—in my fairy chariot, drawn by
mice and made out of a pumpkin, like Cinderella's, in the
opera. Farewell!”
And with that odd, wistful smile, which neither the
present historian, or anybody else, could ever understand,
Mr. Sansoucy went out, followed by Ellie, and was soon
once more in the freezing street.
-- 190 -- p506-197
CHAPTER XI. AURELIA'S DRESS.
[figure description] Page 190.[end figure description]
“I think I will accompany you all the way, Ellie,”
said Mr. Sansoucy, as they took their way along the slippery,
and snow covered streets, “the lady who presented
me with the dress I have given to you—I have deceived
you slightly in the matter, but have few compunctions—
is a particular friend of mine, and I like her very much.”
“Then I am sure she is good and kind, sir,” said Ellie,
with her simple and sincere look. “I do not think you
would like her, if she was not.”
“Why so, my little friend?”
“Because you are so good, sir.”
“There you are beginning to flatter me again.”
“Oh, no, sir—the flattery of a poor child like me would
be a very trifling thing. Indeed, indeed, sir! you have
been so kind and good to us, and I can't help saying how
grateful I am.”
“Pshaw! you amuse me. You are such a little hop
o' my thumb. How old are you?”
“Eleven, sir.”
“That was just the age of—well, of Aurelia—when we
parted.”
“Of who, sir?”
“Aurelia: the lady we are going to see.”
“Is her name Aurelia?”
“Yes.”
“It is a very pretty name.”
-- 191 --
[figure description] Page 191.[end figure description]
“So it is—and I think you will say that the face of
the lady who bears it is not disagreeable.”
“Oh, I am sure of it, sir. She is kind, I know!”
“Very kind—but also very gay.”
“I like to see gay people,” said Ellie, smiling, “it looks
as if they were happy and thankful, and loved God.”
“I wish some of my friends could hear you say that:
they would put you down immediately as a little heretic.”
“How so?” asked Ellie, wonderingly; “I know what
a heretic is—”
“They say Christians ought not to be gay.”
Ellie shook her head.
“I don't think that is right, sir,” she said; “I suppose
it is better not to be too light and thoughtless, but God
does not forbid our being happy and cheerful, because we
are Christians. I think it ought to make us happier than
ever, for this is the only sort of happiness which cannot
be taken away from us”
“Yes.”
“I think happiness is the absence of anxiety and care
and pain—a sort of peace of the heart, and you know
what the Bible says—“the peace of God which passes all
understanding.' He would not speak of it in that way—
I believe it was Paul—if he had not felt that he could not
describe it, or explain it.”
“You are right, Ellie, and you are a thousand times
happy to possess so warm and living a faith. I envy you,
and long for it. When you pray, Ellie, ask God to give
me this peace—will you?” said Mr. Sansoucy, sadly.
“Oh, yes, sir! But I do every day. I pray for all my
-- 192 --
[figure description] Page 192.[end figure description]
friends, and all I love; and you cannot think I leave you
out. Oh, no, sir!”
Sansoucy has since told us, that the look which went
with these words, was that of a guardian angel; so full
of purity and love and goodness did it shine on him.
“Ah, Ellie,” he said, “it was some such one as you
that a great poet thought of when he said:
`Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers,
Whose loves in higher love endure—
What souls possess themselves so pure,
Or is their happiness like theirs!'
It was an English poet, called Tennyson, who is, however,
not equal to Lord Byron—I am told. Now let us hasten
on. The day seems to grow colder and colder.”
They traversed the glittering streets thereafter in silence:
and after a while reached Mr. Ashton's comfortable
house.
“You are very punctual!” said Aurelia, who ran forward,
laughing, and holding out her hand, “and is that
your little friend?”
“Yes, my dear Miss Cinderella,” said Sansoucy, smiling,
“and she is come to get your every-day dress, before you
went to the ball in your fairy chariot and costume.”
“What a satirical way you have; you know it was just
the contrary—for my every-day dress is much better than
my ball costume. Witness my elegant morning wrapper!”
And smiling gaily, Miss Aurelia smoothed the folds of
her handsome morning dress. Indeed, she looked like a
princess, although that dress was simple. Her auburn
-- 193 --
[figure description] Page 193.[end figure description]
curls, shaken around her rosy cheeks, were as bright as
sunlight, and her blue eyes danced with health and pleasure.
“Very well,” said Mr. Sansoucy, “go and get Ellie's
dress—”
“Oh, her name is Ellie!—how do you do, Ellie?” said
the young girl, frankly and kindly, holding out her white
hand, “your name is so pretty.”
“Ellie has just been admiring yours.”
“Indeed.”
“Yes; and she hazarded the observation that you must
be a very `good and kind' young lady.”
“Did she?”
“Because he said you were his friend, ma'am,” said
Ellie, tenderly. “He has been so kind to us.”
“Pshaw!” said Mr. Sansoucy, “I was in a good
humor—that was all, Miss Aurelia. I had a visit from
Mr. Heartsease, and he made me laugh!”
“Laugh?”
“Certainly; he is a most amusing fellow. Didn't you
find him so?”
“He entertained me very much at the ball.”
“Yes, when he got the dance which I wished.”
“The dance?” asked Aurelia, with a delightful expression
of inquiry.
“Yes, my dear madam. Is it possible you were not
aware that I coveted, and was about to petition for, your
lily hand in the cotillion which you danced with Mr.
Heartsease?”
“Ahem!” said Miss Aurelia, laughing, and driven into
a corner by this home question.
-- 194 --
[figure description] Page 194.[end figure description]
“And the rooms were so warm, you said, that you
could not dance again. What an abominable disappointment!”
“You are laughing at me.”
“No, indeed; I was laughing at the ridiculous idea
which occurred to me.”
“What was that? Is it possible that ridiculous ideas
ever occur to Monsieur Sansoucy, traveller and journalist?”
“Sometimes; and the idea which struck me last night
was the absurdity of Ernest and Aurelia not being able
to secure each other for a single cotillion.”
Aurelia received the hit full in front, and colored.
“Oh, yes!” she stammered, laughing, “I have heard of
those personages!”
“Heard of them?”
“Yes, I know two intimate friends of these young
people.”
“Whom?”
“Mr. Sansoucy and Miss Ashton!”
And having thus taken her revenge, Miss Aurelia
laughed gaily, and turned to Ellie.
“What a thin dress you have, Ellie,” she said, “are
you not cold?”
“No, ma'am—this shawl is—”
“Oh! he gave it to you!”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“He seems to be a very amiable gentleman,” said
Aurelia, “and now, if you will come up stairs, Ellie, I will
give you his dress.”
-- 195 --
[figure description] Page 195.[end figure description]
With which words Miss Aurelia ran up stairs, beckoning
Ellie to follow her. The child followed, and in a quarter
of an hour they both returned—Ellie having the dress
securely tied up in a newspaper.
“What are you doing, Monsieur?” said Aurelia to
Sansoucy, for that gentleman was seated at the piano.
“I am trying the accompaniment of this—you know I
play, or may be you don't know.”
And Mr. Sansoucy pointed, with a smile, to the open
music, which Aurelia had been playing when they entered.
“A very interesting query the song addresses to the
company generally,” continued Mr. Sansoucy. “`Where
are the friends of my youth?' What a pity that the
`cherished ones' don't ring the bell, and make a morning
call!”
Aurelia uttered quite a merry little laugh at this, and
looked more rosy and good-humored than ever.
“Or perhaps you were singing this song beneath,” said
Sansoucy, “`'Tis better to laugh than be sighing'—from
Lucrezia.”
And Mr. Sansoucy uttered something very much like
the ceremony indicated in the last word of the title.
“I do think so,” said Aurelia, “and I think of having
an opportunity of carrying out my opinion. I am going
to the fair this morning.”
“Are you?”
“Yes; and of course I shall laugh heartily at somebody.
Such ridiculous persons go to fairs sometimes.”
“That 's true—I attend them frequently.”
“Oh! you mean to force my words—”
-- 196 --
[figure description] Page 196.[end figure description]
“By no means: I am made ridiculous, madam, by the
young ladies. To know what I want, they ask if I am
married or single, for they know I am good-humored.
And you must be aware that such a question is a terrible
thrust at a bachelor!”
“A thrust? Why?”
“Because there is always a great deal of sarcasm beneath
it. The opinion of ladies upon this point is
incredibly ill-founded. They imagine that bachelors are
the most unhappy creatures in the world.”
“Well, sir, are you not?”
“Just the contrary.”
“I do not believe it.”
“Well, I nevertheless assert it. Why, my dear Miss
Aurelia, you really cannot imagine the state of careless
happiness in which the devotees of single blessedness live.
I mean, of course, the male devotees.”
“Oh, yes, sir! Now you are laughing at old maids!”
“No, no—I have many excellent and admirable friends
among such; and, not seldom, is the purest lily left upon
its stalk, because the common roses flaunt before them—
and as often do they remain there from choice. I do not
assert that they are unhappy—but I know we bachelors
are not.”
“Poor creatures!”
“Yes, very unhappy! We are compelled to have
nothing to do with trouble, and toil, and care—we are
forced to be gay and merry—we are condemned to enjoy
the world, and cull `joy and beauty' from everything.
The fact is, we are in a dreadful state, and having no
-- 197 --
[figure description] Page 197.[end figure description]
wives to take care of us, are absolutely compelled, in self-defence,
to be happy.”
“Pshaw! even Ellie, there, knows that this is pretence,
sir.”
“She knows nothing of the sort, my dear Miss Aurelia.
It is necessary to have your philosophical invention, to
see the `struggling sigh' under my tirade.”
“Ah, you acknowledge it, do you, sir? Well, that
satisfies me, and I will not continue the subject.”
“We will return to it at the fair. Shall I escort you?”
“If you please.”
“Having found one of the `friends of your youth,' you
know—”
“I will no longer ask where they are gone,” finished
Aurelia, laughing, and closing the piano. “I go at
twelve.”
“That is my dismissal, I suppose, for the present.”
“No, indeed: I am going up stairs to get my work.
You have my full permission to remain.”
“No, thank you—I have some business. I will return.
Come, Ellie—you stand there like a little statue, though
not like Mr. Poe's heroine, your namesake—the `agate
lamp within your hand.”'
“Strange!” said Aurelia, looking at the child: “I
must have seen Ellie somewhere.”
“Seen her?”
“Yes: her face is quite familiar. One of the common
coincidences, I suppose.
“Doubtless.”
-- 198 --
[figure description] Page 198.[end figure description]
“You must come again to see me, Ellie—you may be
able to do something for me—I have a load of sewing.”
Ellie thanked the young girl, and followed Mr. Sansoucy,
who took his departure with a gallant bow.
“Well, my little friend,” said Mr. Sansoucy, when they
were once more in the street: “does Miss Aurelia impress
you favorably? I am anxious to have your
opinion.”
“Oh, yes sir! She is so beautiful!”
“But good?”
“I think she must be, sir—I am sure of it.”
Sansoucy shook his head.
“She is getting too light,” he said, dolefully; and she
understands too well, I am afraid, that all my flourishes
about the felicity of single life, were prepared for the
occasion. What a terrible load of falsehood we bachelors
have upon our conscience. Here I am, by no means
averse to matrimony—tired of bachelordom in a word—
and I find myself continually declaring that nothing could
force me to change my condition! In fact I know but
one person who possesses that power,” Mr. Sansoucy
said, sighing and smiling; “and it is altogether problematical
whether she will exercise it! Well, here I am,
growing despondent, as I was at the ball; an honest fellow,
like myself, has no cause to fear repulse from any
woman, it seems to me. I will go home, and light a
cigar, and lay out my campaign!”
Having arrived at this determination, Mr. Sansoucy's
countenance recovered its sunshine, and taking Ellie's
hand, he went onward gaily. After a little while he took
-- 199 -- p506-206
[figure description] Page 199.[end figure description]
the bundle, which wearied the child; and thus deprived
of his hands, was not able to bow as elegantly as usual
to his lady acquaintances. It is to be hoped, however,
that they pardoned this in consideration of the circumstances.
They reached the corner near the shooting gallery, at
last, and Mr. Sansoucy delivered up the bundle, waved
his hand in a friendly way to Captain Tarnish, who
nodded as he passed, and with a promise to the child to
come again soon, repaired to his office.
Ellie continued her way, and soon reached home.
CHAPTER XII. ELLIE MEETS A CYNICAL VISITOR.
Ellie hastened in with her bundle, and not heeding
the chill wind which blew to the door behind her, and
whistled through the deserted passages of the old building,
ran up to her uncle's room, and entered smiling.
“Oh, look, uncle!” she said; the lady was so good to
me! and gave me this!”
“Gave you what?” said a harsh voice behind the
invalid: and Ellie raising her startled eyes, saw Doctor
Fossyl crouching on Charley's stool.
“There now! you pretend you didn't see me!” said
the cynic satirically; “you pretend you didn't see my
carriage standing at the corner, held by that rascally boy
I have engaged! A pretty young person, you are!”
-- 200 --
[figure description] Page 200.[end figure description]
Doctor Fossyl uttered these words with so much harshness,
that Ellie colored and looked down.
“Where have you been?” he asked, triumphantly.
“To—to—Mrs. Ashton's, sir.”
“And what lady was so good to you?”
“Miss Aurelia, sir.”
“Aurelia what?”
“I don't know, sir—but she is Mr. Sansoucy's friend.”
“Hum! and so that Sansoucy makes himself the prince
of a fairy tale, does he?”
“Sir?”
“I say your Mr. Sansoucy is a goose.”
“Oh, no, sir! no, sir! he is good to us.”
“There it is! And you believe he don't expect something
in return. I suppose you think he don't go and tell
everybody how magnanimous he is, in aiding you!”
“I am sure he does not, sir,” said Ellie, firmly.
“And who are you to have an opinion?”
“I am only a child,” said Ellie, firm in the defence of
her friend, “and what I say is very little praise. But Mr.
Sansoucy is as good as he can be—Oh, indeed he is!”
“Bother! and what is that in your bundle?”
“A dress, sir.”
“Who gave it to you?”
“Miss Aurelia.”
“Oh, yes! that's the meaning of your cant about being
`so kind' to you. Bah! this angling after `good report,'
sickens me. The world is growing rotten.”
Ellie sat down without reply, and the cynical physician
looked satirically at her.
-- 201 --
[figure description] Page 201.[end figure description]
“And I suppose you consider Miss Aurelia the instrument
of Providence?” he said, at length.
“Yes, sir,” said Ellie, simply.
“And because I give you nothing, I am not. You
hate me, I suppose.”
“Oh, no!”
“Don't be hypocritical! You know you consider me a
bear, and a morose curmudgeon, and make mouths at me
behind my back.”
“Oh, no, no, sir! I never did.”
“Very well, madam, you had better not! But I'm tired
of you—go play with your doll. And you, sir, do you
understand the directions I gave?” he added, to Uncle Joe.
“Yes, Doctor,” said Joe, who seemed to have grown
used to the physicians' surliness.
“And have you money for the medicines? You have?
That is most probably untrue—this foolish pride of the
poor! There, sir—and now I am rid of you.”
With which words Dr. Fossyl threw down some money
and rose.
“Don't be saying you won't have it—I choose you
shall,” he said, “that is my choice; and you, Miss, I suppose,
are very glad you are not sick to be doctored by
such a tiger as me.”
“Oh, sir,” Ellie said, “indeed I did not think so
harshly!”
“You pretend you are not angry, maybe?”
“Indeed, I am not.”
The Doctor looked piercingly at her for a moment, and
a sardonic smile flitted across his face.
-- 202 --
[figure description] Page 202.[end figure description]
“Well,” he said, “if you are in trouble, come to my
house, and I will help you—if those rascally rich fellows
pay me my honest dues. They haggle about paying me
a thousand dollars for a complete cure, when they have
no more constitution left than I could take up on the end
of a needle. Let 'em try it! I'll let 'em die. I'm not
to be tricked. I say I will help you, if you want it; and
I will not expect you to tell everybody of my `goodness'—
who are you glowering at, sir?” said Dr. Fossyl, suddenly,
to Charley, who was contemplating his spindle legs and
sallow face, with curiosity and terror, “who are you staring
out of countenance, you young villain!”
This terrific address completely upset Charley's equanimity,
and his head sank. Doctor Fossyl seemed to be
pleased with this triumph, and with a parting scowl took
his leave.
“He's mighty rough,” said Joe Lacklitter, looking after
him, “but he's a great doctor, Ellie, and I s'pose ain't
used to waitin' on the likes o' me. But where's your dress,
daughter?”
“Here, uncle,” said Ellie, and she unrolled the comfortable
frock.
“Why it's elegant! but it's too big for you.”
“I can easily alter it, dear uncle, and have some stuff
left—you know I don't care for long skirts—my stockings
are thick and warm. Oh, how happy and kind the lady
looked!”
“Did she? Well, I'm much beholden to her on your
account, daughter.”
“I wish you had the dress, uncle,” said Ellie, smiling,
-- 203 --
[figure description] Page 203.[end figure description]
“but you know I couldn't make it into anything for you.
Now I must see about dinner.”
And Ellie bustled about with a hopeful and smiling
face, and made the fire burn up, and set the kettle for some
tea, and got out the table, and put it with the best plate,
at her uncle's elbow.
“Oh, me!” she said, as she reached on the shelf, “we
haven't a bit of sugar. I must go and get some.”
And Ellie quickly wrapped her old shawl around her
shoulders, put on her wadded bonnet, and went out. At
the door she met Doctor Fossyl coming up out of Aunt
Phillis' cellar, and swearing at the lowness of the crossbeam,
which seemed to have taken the liberty of knocking
the Doctor's head jocularly, as he emerged from the low
cellar of Aunt Phillis.
Ellie drew back; but the Doctor saw her.
“A pretty sort of houses you have in this miserable
street!” he said, making Ellie the recipient of his complaints;
“here I am going down on a visit wholly `charitable,'
as the cant is, to this negro woman, who is `poorly,'
as she mutters; and I am repaid by having my head
knocked off.
Perhaps Doctor Fossyl meant his hat, for he now
steadied that article of attire upon his head and scowled.
“Where are you going?” he said to the child.
“To get some sugar, sir,” replied Ellie.
“And what do you want with it? To make a sugarrag
for that baby up there, who stared at my legs?”
“No, sir—for uncle.”
“Oh, `uncle'—he is the sugar eater, is he? Uncle
-- 204 --
[figure description] Page 204.[end figure description]
this, uncle that, here, there and everywhere! You pretend
to love him.”
“I do, dearly, sir.”
“Bother! you depend for your support upon him, and
flatter him!”
“Oh, no, sir!”
“Don't be breaking into your protestations with me,
child. I am not to be taken in. The whole world is
banded together to make me believe a lie—that there is
something pure and disinterested on this miserable earth.
I know better. Life is a farce; and the only difference is
that the leading clown is called President or King. Bah!
I am sick of it; and if it goes on much longer, I will
commit suicide, and leave my property to found a hospital
for invalid dogs! Don't answer me! We are all fools
together, and I don't pretend to be one jot or tittle better
than the rest—except that I know I am a fool and knave,
and don't conceal it, while the rest pretend that they are
mighty fine!”
So saying, Doctor Fossyl ground his teeth at the wind,
which took a few liberties with his cloak, and went toward
his open carriage, which stood at the corner of the street.
Here a new cause of wrath presented itself, and always
watchful for a chauce to explode angrily, Doctor Fossyl
promptly availed himself of the occasion.
-- 205 -- p506-212
CHAPTER XIII. WIDE-AWAKE AND HIS ENEMIES.
[figure description] Page 205.[end figure description]
The `rascal' who had been engaged to act in the capacity
of driver, and holder of his horses when he dismounted
in his rounds, was no other than our friend, Sam Beau, or,
as his intimates were accustomed in friendly playfulness to
style him, “Wide-Awake.”
It will be remembered—at least we trust it will—that
this young gentleman was the same who came to Ellie's
assistance on that morning when the crowd of boys were
trying to lead Charley into evil courses, and prevented
this design by overcoming, in pitched battle, the leader
of the enemy. Since that time, Wide-Awake had tried,
as usual, every sort of employment, and in turn had left
all. He had worked at jobs upon the lighters—assisting
in unloading or loading those crafts—had run, like a
newspaper picture of the god of news, all over the city,
crying in a strident and jocose voice, the names of a dozen
papers; he had further aided in the circulation of those
journals in the morning, for subscribers—and had seriously
contemplated becoming a devil at the office of the journal
which was the exponent of his opinions in politics and
letters. He had, however, abandoned this project,
and accepted the office of bar-tender in a fashionable
drinking saloon, in order, as he said, to study human
nature there by gas-light. He had soon grown tired of
the study, however, and one morning frankly suggested to
the proprietor that he ought to close his “concern,” upon
-- 206 --
[figure description] Page 206.[end figure description]
the ground that it was not respectable. This suggestion,
however, only caused him to become the recipient of a
torrent of abuse; and he had jocularly launched a bit of
cracker at the orator, and gone away singing. Just a
week before the day of Doctor Fossyl's visit to Joe Lacklitter,
Wide-Awake had entered into his service, upon the
ground of the perfect sympathy on his part with the
Doctor's views of life and things—and thus studying
human nature across a foot-board, had been much entertained
and instructed thereby. The versatile genius of
the “assistant,” however, had been fretting for “fresh
fields and pastures new,” and on this day a favorable
opportunity was presented to him for a change.
When Doctor Fossyl came out of Aunt Phillis' cellar,
he descried Wide-Awake standing upon the pavement at
the corner and dancing, for the purpose, probably, of
keeping his feet warm—while, with his hands in his
pockets, and his face radiant with interest and pleasure, he
looked down the street, quite past the Doctor.
Now, the carriage of Docter Fossyl was drawn by two
splendid horses, whose necks were curved magnificently,
and who champed their bits, and pawed the snow impatiently.
They were evidently not of that milky disposition
which renders it safe to leave the possessor standing anywhere;
and this made the neglect of Wide-Awake more
flagrant and worthy of punishment.
Doctor Fossyl hastened forward, drawing his old cloak
around his slender legs, and coming up to Wide-Awake,
who was still dancing, caught that gentleman by the collar
and shook him wrathfully.
-- 207 --
[figure description] Page 207.[end figure description]
“What do you mean, you scoundrel!” he cried. “What
do you mean by leaving my horses standing there alone?”
Wide-Awake made a leap backward, which disengaged
his collar, and replied, jocosely:
“I say, Doctor, ain't that a fine turn-out?”
With which Mr. Wide-Awake pointed to a company of
volunteers, in brilliant uniforms, who were visible some
way down the street.
“Turn-out, you rascal? You dare to talk about a
turn-out when I am speaking about my horses!”
“They're a turn-out too, you know, Doctor,” said
Wide-Awake, with an independent and disrespectful gesture.
“I 'm goin' to leave you, and join the Yagers?”
“You rascal! let me get hold of you!”
“What for, Doctor?” Wide-Awake demanded, with a
cautious avoidance of Dr. Fossyl's approach; “that
wouldn't do any good.”
“I'll thrash you!”
“Where would be the use? I never did see any doctors
that were reasonable. Now, I told you that I went
about with you to see human nature. I've seen it, and
I'm goin' somewhere else.”
“Wretch!”
“Oh, no, I ain't a wretch, Doctor—I'm a philosopher,
I want to see life. I ain't like you. You are rich enough
to drive about in a coach with four horses with two
drivers, and two footmen—taking prescriptions out o'
your pocket with one hand, and putting money in with
the other,—and keeping the footman lumberin' at the
knockers on both sides o' the streets till the people think
-- 208 --
[figure description] Page 208.[end figure description]
its fire, and cause the machines to start a-runnin'. I ain't
independent, but I'm a philosopher, and I am goin' the
rounds.”
The Doctor made a movement to grasp the collar of
Wide-Awake, but that gentleman ducked his head, thrust
his right forefinger over his left shoulder, and took his
departure, with the friendly caution to the Doctor to
“take care of himself and not bile over.”
Doctor Fossyl was so much enraged at this summary
proceeding that he stood perfectly still for some moments,
gnashing and grinding his teeth. Finding that this, however,
was not in itself a gratifying proceeding, he at last
got into his carriage, and drove off, lashing his fine
amimals furiously.
“What a jolly old coon,” said Wide-Awake, “I'm
almost sorry I left him—but I'm tired. Besides yonder's
Captain Schminky and the Yagers—hurrah! go it! here
we are!”
And uttering a shrill whistle, Wide-Awake jumped ten
feet, and ran toward the abode of Captain Schminky,
before which the company were drawn up in military
array.
During the conversation between Dr. Fossyl and his
assistant, Eilie had made her way toward the shop of
Captain Schminky, and passing through the martial-looking
Yagers, and the children who swarmed to see them,
entered the shop.
She found herself in presence of the Captain of the Yagers
himself, who was resplendent in his brilliant uniform,
and carried his gilt-handled sword with warrior-like grace.
-- 209 --
[figure description] Page 209.[end figure description]
Within two paces stood the Lieutenant of the Yagers,
with his hand upon his hat-brim, receiving orders.
“You vil traw up de koompany in right line, Lefdenent,”
said Captain Schminky.
“Yes, Gaptain.”
“You vil den call me and de roll.”
The Lieutenant signified that he would call the personage
and the thing.
“An' you vil disburse de crowd, Lefdenant—de vagabones.”
The Lieutenant made a respectful sign, and wheeling
round went out in a military walk, which was in the best
style.
“Now, young 'oomans,” said Captain Schminky, goodnaturedly;
“what do you want?”
“Some sugar, if you please, sir,” said Ellie, “a pound.”
“Your name ees Elley?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You is young frent—I geef you de pound zugar”—I
geef you doo pount.”
And Captain Schminky made a dignified sign to his
shop-keeper, who hastened to wait upon the young friend
of his master.
“We will now brocede to gall de names,” observed
Captain Schminky.
And raising his head still higher, the worthy Captain
issued forth, and stood in presence of his admiring company.
The “Yagers” were, as their name signifies, of
German blood, and, indeed, this was a pre-requisite to
admission into the company. They were clad in very
-- 210 --
[figure description] Page 210.[end figure description]
handsome uniforms, for this class of the community are
generally men of great thrift, and are consequently well to
do in the world, as they deserve to be; and are well able
to gratify any of their fancies. The band of the “Yagers”
was especially fine and striking. In addition to the ordinary
number of wind instruments, of brass and wood, it
embraced a drum which seemed to be made for Goliah,
and a pair of cymbals which might have served for Chinese
hats.
Everything about the “Yagers” was martial and warlike—
down to their mustaches, which were huge and terrible.
When they marched, if they did not exactly shake
the ground, they produced an enormous clatter—and the
drum and cymbals out-roared and tingled any other drum
and cymbals which had ever promenaded in the van of
gallant warriors.
Captain Schminky took up a position in front of the
company, extended his arm with dignity, and commanded
the eyes of the warriors to roll toward the right, for the
purpose of “dressing.”
This was done, and then the sergeant opened his book,
and called the roll. He had nearly got through, when
Captain Schminky, who had for some time been directing
uneasy glances up the street, exclaimed:
“That'll do! glose up! here comes that tam Zam
Peau!”
The gentleman thus spoken of was Wide-Awake, who
now advanced, with dreadful satire in his countenance,
toward the captain, beating an imaginary drum, and singing
in a mighty voice:
-- 211 --
[figure description] Page 211.[end figure description]
“When you 'ear the great big drum,
You may be sure the Yagers come!”
to which chaunt he added a vocal imitation of the drum,
which was eminently true to life.
We will not record the expressions used by Captain
Schminky under this provocation,—it is enough to say,
that they were so energetic, that Wide-Awake was filled
with uproarious and enthusiastic delight, and invented, on
the spur of the moment, the additional couplet:
“Gaptain Schminky, ton't you see,
Your tam ugly koompanee?”
which was also decorated with the drum accompaniment
for a chorus—Wide-Awake leaning far backwards, with
his chin up, and striking vigorous blows upon an imaginary
drum.
The shouts of the urchins, in support of Wide-Awake,
mingled with the furious objurgations of Captain Schminky;
and the affectionate solicitude of his intimates, caused
the young gentleman to verify immediately the truth of
that proverb which declares that a man in any emergency
should first be preserved from his friends. They closed
around Wide-Awake so effectually in their deep admiration,
that when Captain Schminky made a rush at his
enemy, Wide-Awake found the means of retreat wholly
cut off.
His presence of mind, however, did not desert him, and
leaping on the window sill of the shop, he evaded the
blow directed at him. Captain Schminky, however, was
not thus to be disappointed. He drew his sword and
made a lunge at Wide-Awake, which caused that agile
-- 212 --
[figure description] Page 212.[end figure description]
youth to rapidly mount the shutter—perching himself on
the summit of which, he looked down triumphantly upon
the Yagers.
A cheer rose from the vagabonds, and Captain Schminky,
panting, and red in the face, tried in vain to reach up, and
prick the audacious satirist with the point of his sword.
“No, my dear Gaptain,” said Wide-Awake, chuckling,
“you gan't do it—you gan't! Your zord ees not one
spear, vat you call one sticker! Goot mornin', gaptain, I'
ope I zee you well, and your goot koompany! ha! ha!”
Captain Schminky made desperate efforts to thrust his
sword into the dangling legs of Wide-Awake, but that
youngster drew them up with astonishing agility, all the
time balancing himself upon his hands.
“Now gaptain!” he cried, “I geef you goot day—I
love your koompany—I no make fun of the gallant Yager
band of jolly poys!—I zay every where I admire the
Yagers—I zay Gaptain Schminky is a great gommander,
and hees men putiful! No you didn't that time, gaptain!
Eh? Don't you think it, gaptain. I ain't a comin' down!”
The Yagers growled, and some of the mustaches curled
in spite of the insult to the corps. Wide-Awake perceived
this favorable sign.
“My frents,” he cried in a friendly tone, “h'ist me up
one glass of lager bier, and I will trink your fery goot
helf. I will make my gildren and my grandgildren trink
your fery goot helf—you is fery grand koompany! Oh,
gaptain! what a purty zord! Hans Doffendaffer, Sauerkraut,
Dopenfinger, and Heislinger, I geef you fery goot
tay!”
-- 213 --
[figure description] Page 213.[end figure description]
With which words Wide-Awake swung the shutters
round, caught the pipe which ran down in his reach, and
swinging to the ground began again to beat the drum, and
clash the imaginary cymbals.
It was some time before Captain Schminky recovered
his equanimity, after this attack of his enemy. He glowered
at Wide-Awake, who from a distance answered him
with smiles; and more than once shook his fist in that
direction. His ire died away, however, after a while, and
then his fine company absorbed all his attention.
He placed himself at their head, made a sign to the
drum and the rest, and crying “march!” stepped gallantly
out, and stared at vacancy with determined vigor.
The huge drum roared, the cymbals clashed, the brass
instruments rent surrounding ears, and the gallant Yagers
passed onward, wrapped in terrible and soul-inspiring
music.
Wide-Awake was left in a hopeless minority, but he
consoled himself with the hope of having more entertainment
in the future. As he turned round, with a grin upon
his careless countenance, he saw Ellie.
-- 214 -- p506-221
CHAPTER XIV. WIDE-AWAKE MEDITATES FELONY IN BEHALF OF LUCIA.
[figure description] Page 214.[end figure description]
We have stated that Ellie and Wide-Awake were not
strangers—on the contrary were on very good terms with
each other, and had frequently stopped to interchange
salutations and friendly greetings.
There was, in Wide-Awake, much good and honest
feeling, and this Ellie knew very well; and she was disposed
to look leniently upon his failings. As he joined
her now, however, and walked by her side, in his careless,
independent way, the child took him to task for his treatment
of Captain Schminky, telling him that it was very
wrong, and that he ought not to have done it.
“Why not?” said Wide-Awake, laughing. “That 's
just like you, Ellie. You would n't tread on the tail of a
dog!”
“Why should I?” said Ellie.
“To make him jump and holler!” exclaimed Wide-Awake,
with ready logic.
Ellie shook her head.
“Indeed, that is not right, Sam,” she said—“it is not
kind.”
“Oh, bother, Ellie! My eyes! how hard you are on a
feller!”
“I have no right to be hard on anybody, but indeed,
Sam, you ought not to make fun of Captain Schminky
and the company.”
-- 215 --
[figure description] Page 215.[end figure description]
“I can't help it—I can't! Did anybody ever see such
a pack of bull-dogs?”
“They 'll treat you badly some day.”
“Let 'em try! I 'm not afraid, and I expect to have
lots o' fun with 'em yet! Good, that `Captain Schminky,
don't you see?' was n't it?”
“Oh, no, no, Sam! It was not kind!”
“Kind! There you are, Ellie, with your kind. If a
thing ain't kind, a feller's brought right to law, and gits
the cat-o'-nine-tails.”
“I think if a thing is not kind, it is not good,” said
Ellie.
“Well,” said Wide-Awake, with some ill-humor, “I 'm
catchin' it—I am. Couldn't you pour it in a little hotter'
n' stronger—pr'aps I 'd bile over into cheers.”
With which observation Wide-Awake stuck his thumbs
into his waistcoat and elevated his head with easy sangfroid.
“Indeed, Sam, I don't intend to say anything I ought
not to—only people will think you are worse than you
are. You are good and kind, and I know how good you
have been to Lucia.”
At the name of Lucia, Wide-Awake's lofty demeanor
underwent a sudden change, and a slight color tinged his
brown cheek.
“Good to her!” he said, earnestly, “I ain't good to
her!”
“Oh, indeed you are!”
“Not that I might n't be,” added the boy, blushing, as
he looked at Ellie, “she 's as pretty and good as an angel.”
-- 216 --
[figure description] Page 216.[end figure description]
“I love her very much,” said Ellie.
“And so do I!” blustered Wide-Awake. “There, it
is out!—and I 'm rid on't! Go it!—hurrah!—I b'lieve
I 'm in love!”
And having uttered this tremendous speech, Wide-Awake
looked sheepish, and hung his head.
“In love!” said Ellie. “Oh, yes—you mean—”
“Bless you, Ellie, I mean I 'd give my life to keep her
little finger from achin'.”
Ellie smiled at what she considered a very extravagant
speech.
“I ain't nobody, I know,” said Wide-Awake, earnestly,
“and she's a angel—a angelic little organ-grinder's daughter,”
he added, with an odd appreciation of the humor in
his poetical description. “It 's too good in her to look
on the likes o' me.”
“To look on you?”
“Yes, Ellie.”
“Why, she likes you, and says you are so good.”
“Does she?” shouted Wide-Awake; “you ain't
jokin'?”
“No, indeed.”
“She says that?”
“Yes.”
“Then, hoora! go it! My fortune's made, and I'm a
goin' on my travels in a six-horse chariot, with footmen
and a driver, with a gold lace hat!”
Having thus disburdened his mind in a degree, Wide-Awake
finished by improvising a dance, which was executed
-- 217 --
[figure description] Page 217.[end figure description]
with astonishing agility, and was of range so extensive
that it brought him to the door of Ellie's dwelling.
“I say!” he said, growing calm again: “is Lucia in
there?”
“I believe she is.”
“I'm goin' in.”
“Oh, yes,” said Ellie: “come up.”
“I want to, but if she begins to say anything about
my `bein' good to her,' I'll back right out.”
“Why, Sam,” said Ellie, softly: “you know you
are.”
“What did I do?” said Wide-Awake, apparently
desirous to refute Ellie; “all I did, was meetin' Lucia,
and talking' with her, and tellin' her to cheer up—that a
good time was a-comin', and the Spring would make
everything bright agin! I had a hard time sayin' it, for
Lucia looked so bad—and when I got her to talk, will
you b'leve it, Ellie, that she was weak for want of something
to eat! She was hungry!—Lucia was hungry!”
And, overwhelmed by this monstrous idea, Wide-Awake
remained silent.
“I had a little money, and we went into the shop, up
there, and got something to eat. I don't have much
money, but I had enough, you know, Ellie, Lucia was
hungry!” added Wide-Awake, as though there was a
hidden and strange enormity in the state of things which
produced such a result.
“And you helped her,” said Ellie; “and ever since
you have been coming and leaving papers of things at her
-- 218 --
[figure description] Page 218.[end figure description]
door, and sometimes money. Oh, that was so good in
you, Sam!”
Wide-Awake shook his head.
“Yes, it was, and Lucia told me all about it—and—
and—it was very kind in you.”
The hesitation in Ellie's voice arose from the fact, that
Lucia, with the sensitive pride of her strange character,
had keenly felt the utter poverty which made her thus
dependent upon the bounty of the boy for her daily sustenance;
and had complained bitterly to Ellie of the fate
which made her thus a burden upon one nearly as poor
as herself. In fact, Lucia's misfortunes, and her friendless
condition had made her deeply melancholy, and not
even the encouraging words and assistance of Ellie could
relieve her. Ellie had been upon the point of telling
Wide-Awake how sensitive Lucia was; but she thought
it best not to;—and after a few more words, they both
went up stairs to Lucia's room.
It was a miserable sort of closet at the end of the
passage, and was entered by a small door, which did not
fit into the opening cut for it, and thus allowed the wind
to have free entrance at the sides and beneath.
At this door, Ellie and Wide-Awake knocked, with
that respect which is paid to grief and suffering: and
hearing a faint voice bid them come in, they entered.
The apartment, if such it could be called, was miserable
indeed. A tattered pallet, two benches, a rude table,
and an old chest, were its entire furniture; and the
cheerless fire-place was filled with ashes, and totally
without fire.
-- 219 --
[figure description] Page 219.[end figure description]
Lucia lay upon the poor bed, and was endeavouring to
ward off the freezing cold by wrapping around her the
worn and tattered covering. Her long dark hair fell
around her face in dishevelled curls, and her large eyes
were nearly concealed by their heavy lashes. The girl's
cheeks were covered with a faint hectic flush, and a sad
smile, full of gentleness and uncomplaining sorrow,
curved her melancholy lips.
“Oh, Lucia, said Ellie: “how could you stay here
without any fire? You promised me to come and sit
with us when you had no wood, and you know you could
have some of ours! Oh, Lucia!”
And going to her friend, Ellie knelt down, and smoothed
her hair, and kissed her.
Lucia returned the caress, and sad tears came to her
eyes, which she could not repress. Then looking up
through her tears, she said:
“Well, Sam. It was very good in you to come and
see me. I never can thank you for all your goodness.”
“Me good, Lucia!” cried Wide-Awake. “I'm a rascal!—
to be leaving you in this way here without wood.
I'll git some, and make a fire right off, if I have to tear
down some part of this old rattle-trap—I will!”
With which words Wide-Awake, in the heat of his
indignation, rushed indignantly at the door as though it
were his purpose immediately to tear that article from its
hinges and use it for fire-wood.
“Wait, Sam!” said Ellie; “stay with Lucia and I'll
get some wood—there is some in my room.”
“I won't! wait! I'll get it!”
-- 220 --
[figure description] Page 220.[end figure description]
And making a rush at the door of Ellie's little room,
adjoining her uncle's, which he was familiar with, Wide-Awake
soon returned with a supply which he arranged
upon the hearth, kindled with a match taken from his
pocket, and blew into a blaze.
Wide-Awake then requested the company to await his
return, and taking the stair-steps six at a time, vanished
in the direction of Captain Schminky's. He quite terrified
the shop-boy there by his loud and indignant demands
for what he wanted, and in an incredibly short space of
time, had returned to the old house, and laid his spoils at
the feet of Lucia.
They were sundry eatables, among which figured cheese,
biscuit, sausage, and sugar and tea. Wide-Awake did
not mention the fact that the purchase of these articles
had completely exhausted the remainder of his week's
salary, paid on that morning by Dr. Fossyl. On the contrary
you would have imagined from the manner of Wide-Awake
that he was sole proprietor of a gold mine at the
very least, and didn't mind such trifles—that foolish,
merry Wide-Awake!
Lucia was soon seated before the fire, with her long
hair falling on her shoulders; and her beautiful face more
than ever filled with that sad sweetness which generally
characterized it.
Ellie made some tea for her friend, and Wide-Awake
busied himself with the hopeless attempt of improving the
flavour of a Bologna sausage by broiling slices of it upon
the stones of the fire-place. The fact is that Wide-Awake
was very far from verifying his name upon that occasion—
-- 221 --
[figure description] Page 221.[end figure description]
he behaved in a way so very awkward and ridiculous.
You really wondered if his name was not Fast-Asleep,
and how he didn't stumble over Lucia, or set Ellie upon
the table in place of the cheese, or do some other foolish
thing, so evident was his confusion of mind. At last the
tea was made, and a few broken cups being produced, and
as many cracked plates, the company sat down to make
themselves comfortable.
It was a long time before Lucia could repress her agitated
feeling of gratitude at such kindness. Ellie forced
her to eat, however, and the hot tea seemed to give her
strength.
“Now, Lucia,” said Wide-Awake, “I consider myself
treated bad—I do. Here you are a sufferin' for fire and
all, and you don't drop a line to me, when you know you
promised.”
“Oh I couldn't, Sam!” “Lucia said, “I was ashamed—
I am old enough not to be a burden to—”
“A burden! who says you are a burden! why you
don't eat more'n a sparrow; and as to the old, I suspect
you ain't upwards of seven—are you?”
This was so obviously a witticism that a sad smile came
to Lucia's face.
“I'm double seven, Sam,” she said, “I'm fourteen; and
that is too old to be begging. Oh, I can't!” she said,
with touching earnestness, “it makes me miserable!”
“Well don't, then,” said Wide-Awake, “and we'll say
no more about it. Some mornin' I'll read in the papers
that you froze here in this old trap; and the day I read
it, I'll go and spend my last money in a razor, and draw
-- 222 --
[figure description] Page 222.[end figure description]
the same across my throat, and be took up and laid out
straight. That's what I'm goin' to do.”
“Oh, Sam!” said Lucia, coloring—
“I will!”
“Kill yourself! Oh, that is a dreadful sin—but you are
jesting. Ellie showed me what a dreadful sin it is—it is
flying in the face of the Almighty—I read in her Bible.
Oh, if I only had a Bible!”
“What would you do with it?” said Wide-Awake”—
read it?”
“Oh, yes! It would be such a consolation to me. It
seems so sweet ever since we had that talk together,
Ellie,” said Lucia, sadly.
“Very good,” said Wide-Awake to himself; “she shall
have a Bible if I have to steal the money. I wonder if
stealin' one out o' the store would be a sin?”
This problem proving too deep for Wide-Awake, he
gave it up, and again struck into the conversation.
The reader may imagine how much Lucia was encouraged
and strengthened by this warm exhibition of regard
upon the part of her kind child-friends. For Wide-Awake
was a mere child—a poor child, like the two girls—
and the three represented not inaptly that singular
league which the poor so often enter into, for mutual
defence against the wind and cold and storm, and the
grim demon want. Let it be said of the poor in simple
words, which yet embrace all that is necessary, that they
help each other with heart and hand—and are not repelled
by the cold atmosphere which so often chills the charity
of others.
-- 223 -- p506-230
[figure description] Page 223.[end figure description]
So the children comforted the child, Lucia; and when
they left her, promising to come soon again, she was not
so sad, and her heart relieved itself in tears of thanks, with
which were mingled silent blessings. Sitting upon the
low bench, she leaned her head upon her hand, and her
tears flowed again; and if that ever recurring pride erected
its head, she turned away from it, and longed for one thing
only—a Bible, only a Bible!
CHAPTER XV. AUNT PHILLIS IN HER CASTLE.
It is a strange thing when a poor child's first and most
earnest want in the wide world is a Bible—only a Bible.
Yet this was Lucia's want. Since that morning when
Ellie had put her arms round her neck, and cried, and said
to her, “Not believe in God! Oh, Lucia! how unhappy
you must be!” her heart had felt a new and strange
warmth, a singular and unknown yearning, for that full
belief which was a defence against all woe, and poverty
and suffering. She could not understand the strange sensation
which had accompanied her through wind and cold,
through hunger and grief—the sensation which burned
in her heart like a mysterious fire which nothing could
extinguish;—she could not understand that a higher voice
than any on this earth had spoken to her;—she could not
know that those words “When the Lord turned again
the captivity of Zion we were like them that dream,”
-- 224 --
[figure description] Page 224.[end figure description]
described the state of those whose captivity to a greater
enemy is broken: and who seeing a light, feeling a vital
warmth, are yet doubtful of their meaning, and cry out
for more, more light! more light!
That light which her heart longed for was to be found
only in the Word of Him who had spoken to her—in his
Bible. Oh, if she only had a Bible! Ellie came and read
to her often, and she would take Ellie's volume, and read
it, shivering in the cold, for hours, with nothing but the
tattered counterpane around her; she would retain it
often until Ellie came to get it, sobbing and crying and
praying, as she read—but that was not enough. Oh! for
a Bible of her own, to carry in her bosom always, and
never put away from her—to read, and study, and hang
over day and night, consoled by its promises, and by its
tender words of pardon and forgiveness! Oh, for a Bible
of her own—only a Bible!
She rose and looked around her poor room, as if some
magic would supply the object of her longing. Then
raising her hands to her face, she wiped away two tears
which hung upon her long silky lashes, and uttered a deep
sigh.
Then suddenly a thought seemed to occur to her, and
she turned toward the door, and went out, and descended
the stairs.
The bitter wind made her shiver and shrink, for the
child had scarcely anything but the old worn frock, thin
and flimsy, to protect her from the cold. She uttered no
sound, however, and continued her way toward the steps,
descending into Aunt Phillis' cellar. She paused here a
-- 225 --
[figure description] Page 225.[end figure description]
moment, raised her eyes toward the chill sky, where the
sun was now struggling through mist, and sighed again.
Without further emotion, she then descended the steps,
and knocked at Aunt Phillis' door. A faint voice bade
her come in, and she pulled the latchet, which was made
of a strap, and entered the abode of Aunt Phillis.
Aunt Phillis was sick.
Since the day, when following Ellie through the snow,
we entered with her the humble dwelling of the old negro
woman, Aunt Phillis had continued to go through her
regular occupation of washer and ironer, with little care for
the cold, little regard for the most biting wind. With that
industry which characterizes her class, she had labored
assiduously, and not eaten the bread of idleness—perhaps,
because if she had essayed to do so, she would have been
without any bread at all. In her small room she had carried
on all those numerous ceremonies, which are practised
in the profession of those who prepare the articles of
clothing, in which all classes of the community present
themselves before the world—and, singing at her toil, had
passed the long, gloomy days with hope and content, and
that sunshine which never fails to pour in on the active
spirit, busy at its appointed toil.
But one day, when Aunt Phillis rose up in the morning,
a sort of mist seemed to pass before her eyes, and she
felt a faintness, as she set busily about her morning task,
which she had never experienced before. On the preceding
evening she had been far up to the other end of the
city, with her large flat basket full of clothes, and had
nearly been blown away by the wind upon her return.
-- 226 --
[figure description] Page 226.[end figure description]
The cold blast had penetrated into her blood, and chilled
her through and through—and that old blood, thinned by
so many years of toil, had arrested itself in its flow, and
lingered, and debated whether it should go on as before,
feeding the subtle and invisible essence of life, or flow no
more forever.
A close observer might have seen that the old woman
was treading upon that verge which separates life and
death; going from the real world, in which she had lived
nearly the appointed time, given her by God, to that other
land where there is no appointed time—where there is
neither poor nor rich—neither black nor white; where the
smile of the Saviour welcomes all who are true of heart,
who come to him for refuge. Sitting down, the old
woman thought long, and falling into a waking dream,
saw all her life pass before her—and who knows what
throbs of genuine love and happiness made the old heart
leap again. She remembered everything, but thought
chiefly of her days in church, when the warmth at the old
heart seemed to make her young again, driving back all
the creeping shadows of age and weakness.
For some days her weakness remained much as it was,
and, in spite of all her struggles, she was almost unable
to do any of her accustomed work. She received many
visits from sympathizing friends, and they duly performed
her washing and ironing—for this branch of poor
cling to each other with peculiar tenacity. So the days
had passed, and Aunt Phillis had each morning risen, and
dressed herself with feeble hands, and set about her work,
and then desisted: and it was just as she had taken her
-- 227 --
[figure description] Page 227.[end figure description]
seat, one day, that a sour-faced old gentleman entered
without ceremony, and asked if any one was sick there.
This was Doctor Fossyl—and Aunt Phillis had promptly
replied that nobody was sick, though she was “poorly,
thank God!”—that being the African mode of exhibiting
resignation, and returning thanks for all dispensations.
Dr. Fossyl had rudely made his diagnosis, declared the
patient decidedly unwell, and informed her, that unless she
took care of herself, she would not need him any more.
Then promising roughly to call again, he had departed.
The reader will observe that this was but an hour or
two before the meeting in Lucia's chamber, and accordingly,
when Lucia descended to Aunt Phillis' apartment,
she found that lady still reflecting upon the apparition of
Doctor Fossyl.
Aunt Phillis was seated by the fire, with a white handkerchief
bound around her head, and was regarding from
time to time a clothes-horse, upon which hung a very, very
few clothes—all she had been able to prepare that morning.
Overcome by weakness, she had been compelled to
sit down. From time to time her eyes would wander
from the clothes-horse to the appurtenances of the room;
and this investigation seemed to be for the purpose of
convincing herself that everything was in its place. The
truth is, that Aunt Phillis prided herself upon the adornments
of her apartment.
Over the fire-place and the tall mantel-piece, which
boasted a miscellaneous collection of hymn books, pepper
pods, clothes-pins, cups, saucers and jars—over this mantel-piece,
hung two pictures in veneered frames, the said
-- 228 --
[figure description] Page 228.[end figure description]
pictures being in the most brilliant style of art, and very
striking in design. One represented St. Catherine taking
an æriel voyage, with the assistance of two chubby and
rosy-faced angelic beings—the other depicting Peter, up
to his knees in the sea, and stretching out his hands for
help. In the corner an old press was sacred to the
thousand pet articles which Aunt Phillis set most store
by, and this was never opened in the presence of her most
intimate friends. This was the old lady's mystery—and
she guarded the cracked glass and china, and the old
mugs and knives and forks there—to say nothing of the
apples, cakes, preserves and pickles—with a jealousy which
often caused her to be considered quite “a trial” to her
friends. As to the clothes adornments of Aunt Phillis'
chamber, we have already declared our inability to
describe those miscellaneous articles—which is perhaps a
very fortunate circumstance, inasmuch as we should be
compelled to attempt a sketch of all, which would involve
an examination of those mysteries of the female toilette,
which it is not proper for the profane to consider.
All these objects were embraced by Aunt Phillis'
careful and housewife-like survey; and then her thoughts
returned to the rough winter, and were about to busy
themselves with that unpromising topic, when Lucia's
knock attracted the old lady's attention, and raising her
voice, she had bidden the visitor enter.
-- 229 -- p506-236
CHAPTER XVI. THE OLD DAYS AND THE NEW.
[figure description] Page 229.[end figure description]
Lucia availed herself of the permission accorded by
the old woman, and coming in, closed the door carefully,
and approached the old woman, whose sight latterly had
begun to fail her.
The child held out her hand, which the old woman
pressed in her own, and said gently:
“Good morning, Aunt Phillis—I am Lucia, you
know.”
“Lord bless you, chile!” said Aunt Phillis, heartily.
“I knows you, and many times have I laid my eyes on
you. Poor chile! you look sorry!”
“I'm not very well, this morning—but I thought I
would come down and see you, Aunt Phillis—I heard
you were sick, and I thought I might read some to you,
and I would like it, too. You 'are not much sick, are
you?”
“Well, de Lord knows—God knows my breast do
ache! Well, well! I hope I ain't a complainin' The
work's the thing which makes me mortified.”
“The work?”
“The washin' and ironing', chile! Bless de Lord! I
ain't been able to do nothin'. You know what I does,
chile, is common work, though I has some nice things,
too. I done in my time all sorts o' work, but 'taint
everybody that can plete and flute—'bleeged to have
flutin' irons to run in the little hollers, you know. I
-- 230 --
[figure description] Page 230.[end figure description]
recklect,” said the old woman, with her head on one side, and
counting on her fingers: “I recklect 'in old times there
was a mighty heap o' pletin' goin' on. I thought master
never would get enough o' shirts pleted—he! he!—seems
to me, had mor' a' half-a-hunderd! Sich pletes! we was
at de Springs, and I made twelve dollars by pletin!
Soon as they see my pletes, they send to me—all the
gentlemen—whole hamper baskets, crammed and crowdin'
to be pleted! Well, well! We was young people then,
and we didn't think 'bout nothin' but dancin' and 'stravagance,
and vainty! Wonder if white people is so now?
Sich things the ladies weared! Dresses all covered with
silver spangles, and high rows o' curls, and stockin's all
flowered over—I thought I never should a' got done
washin' and ironin' o' ladies' stockins'! They mos' put
on a pair at breakfas', dinner, 'n' supper—for the skirts
was short, and the gentlemen see 'em—and they all was
silk! Sich a washin' and a ironin', with frills an' pletes,
and flutin', and doin' up lace collars, and inside hankshaws,
I never did see—no, never, God knows, long as I
have been livin'!”
And Aunt Phillis shook her head in depreciation of the
times and personages she had been speaking of.
“That was in the old, old times, wasn't it, Aunt Phillis?”
said Lucia, who had taken her seat, opposite the
old woman.
“Yes, indeed, honey! A sight ago—mos' a hunderd
years, I reckon! What fine times they was!” said the
old woman, with the logical inconsistency of the negro
character; “but they was mighty little religion, chile—
-- 231 --
[figure description] Page 231.[end figure description]
they didn't think o' nothin' but parties and balls, and sich
like things. The Lord forgive me, we cullered folks
wern't no better'n the rest! What a time it was! Well,
well, the Lord be thanked, them times is all gone, and
joy go with 'em.”
“You must be very old, now, Aunt Phillis,” said
Lucia, who experienced a sad pleasure in hearing the old
woman run on.
“I guess I is, chile! De Lord, he knows how old I
is! I bin see generation after generation come up, and
git cut down like the grass that's dried up. I'm goin'
on my long journey, chile.”
“Oh, no, Aunt Phillis—you are very hearty, ain't you?”
“No, de Lord knows I ain't, chile. I is done thinkin''
bout anything in this world. I is beginnin' to think'
bout t'other worl', chile. Dis is a mighty wicked worl',
de Lord, he knows, and I'm done with it, an' all dat's in
it, chile—I'm goin' home!”
With which words Aunt Phillis began with great feeling
to croon a hymn to herself.
Unfortunately for her argument, however, and as
though to prove that as long as we are in the world
it is proper to attend to the material things of existence,
Aunt Phillis heard, as she concluded, the cry of
“charcoal!” without, and requested Lucia immediately
to go out, and stop the vender of that article. Lucia
accordingly left the cellar, and in a few minutes the
loud cry of “charcoal, ladies, charcoal!” ceased, and
the charcoal merchant appeared at the head of the steps.
He was a young African, with a smutty face, and a
-- 232 --
[figure description] Page 232.[end figure description]
complaining expression, as of one against whom the
world was banded in hostility. He carried his stock in
trade in a rectangular cart, constructed of strips of timber,
after the manner of a hencoop, and this machine was
drawn by an ancient and solemn looking donkey, who
seemed to have some time since reached that age when
donkeys, like men, cease to wonder at anything. That
donkey was evidently past surprise of any description,
and would have stabled himself in a cathedral, without
once looking at a single object, if the Pope himself had
been erected on the altar.
The charcoal vender ducked his head, and entered
Aunt Phillis' presence—that lady receiving him with
inflexible dignity.
“Now young man,” said Aunt Phillis: “don't you be
a-deceivin' me, and sayin' charcoal's high, for I know it's
no sich thing. How much a bar'l?”
“It's—”
“Don't say mor'n eight in pence!”
“Oh, ma'am,” said the charcoal boy, quite overcome
by this energetic address: “its fifopence, ma'am.”
“Fifopence!” cried Aunt Phillis, in great horror; “did
anybody ever! Now, young man! jest listen to me, while
I tell my mind to you!”
“Leastway ma'am its a eight in pence,” said the charcoal
martyr, who trembled before the irate judge.
“G'ime a bar'l,” said Aunt Phillis; “and next time
young man, look sharp, before you go about deceivin' the
commun'ty!”
The charcoal vender disappeared—unhitched his
-- 233 --
[figure description] Page 233.[end figure description]
donkey, and turned him with his head into the cart, his body
being between the shafts, which position is considered
absolutely essential to a valid sale of charcoal—and this
ceremony being gone through with, proceeded to fill the
barrel which he afterwards brought in and emptied in the
box prepared for it.
The expedition with which this was done highly pleased
Aunt Phillis, who set a plate of cold bones and cornbread
before the youthful charcoal vender, whereat his
countenance lit up with radiant satisfaction.
“Now you set there, up on them steps, 'an eat,” said
Aunt Phillis, “an' thank the Lord, not me.”
Whether the thanks were returned or not remains a
mystery—but certain it is that the last morsel was devoured,
after which the smutty youth ducked his head
with an injured air, and soon was crying again in the
distance.
“Charcoal!” cried Aunt Phillis, in derision, “I hear a
parrot cryin' `charcoal' to'ther day, down there jest by
the market, and a-sayin', `Julia!' tell I thought I should
a laughed myself away a-listenin' to him. They was too
on em, chile, bless you, and one try to sing like that crow'
ut used to live down on the bridge, and roll his eyes and
holler out to `Bob,' when Bob come back from market,
shakin' of his wings, and makin' b'lieve he wasn't hungry,
only playin'! I hear them parrots singin'. One singed
a song, and to'ther cried `that's mighty purty singin'!'
and I never see sech ugly things as I'm a livin' bein'.
Split ther tongues, and crows kin do the same as I am
toll. He! he! `that's mighty purty singin'!' and I
-- 234 --
[figure description] Page 234.[end figure description]
thought I should 'a dropped my basket full of clothes
there right down in the street, they made one laugh so,
chile—the Lord have mercy!”
With which account of her experience in the parrot
line, Aunt Phillis turned to other subjects, and surveyed
the charcoal.
“It's Providence sent that boy,” said the old lady, “I'm
jest out, and you, child, was down here for to run out and
git it. But yit, de Lord knows when I'll git to usin' that
there charcoal.”
“You mean washing and ironing, don't you, Aunt
Phillis?”
“Yes, chile.”
“Let me help you, wont you?”
“You, chile?”
“Yes, Aunt Phillis. I will help you—go for water—
and wash and iron, and do anything,” said Lucia, tremulously;
“I will ask nothing but a little to eat:—I—I—
that is I hardly know what to do, and I—don't like to be
a burden to my friends.”
“Why that's right, chile; but kin you wash an' ir'n?”
“I think I could, Aunt Phillis.”
“Poor little hands—poor chile! you ain't got nothin'!”
There was so much kind and motherly expression in
these words that Lucia's eyes filled with tears.
“You shell have somethin' as long's I's got anything,”
said Aunt Phillis; “an' if you choose to help me, de Lord
knows I will take it as a 'commodation. Come down in
de mornin' an I'll fin' the things. Them lace undersleeves
there 'longing' to a little lady jest about your age, as
-- 235 --
[figure description] Page 235.[end figure description]
rich as golden guineas, will jest suit you, chile, and you
kin do 'em up better 'n I kin.”
“Oh, thank you, Aunt Phillis,” said Lucia, who caught
at this means of procuring her daily bread without accepting
Sam's or Ellie's assistance, which was as we have said,
bitterly repugnant to her pride: “Oh, thank you, and I'll
come down early. Now, Aunt Phillis, would you please
to lend me your Bible—I haven't got one, and I do so
long to read.”
“My Bible! that I will, and bless the day you come
a-askin' after 't. It's a lovely sight to see the young
a-seekin' of the Lord. Read some to me, chile! There's
the Bible on the shelf—read, read it—anywhere, anywhere,
chile! it's all good.”
And Lucia got the Bible and opened it, and read the
Psalm which commences, “Lord thou hast been our dwelling
place in all generations.”
As the child read on in her low earnest voice, the old
woman nodded, and bent about, and drank in the words
with a pleasure and satisfaction which made the old face
glow.
“For a thousand years in thy sight are but as yesterday
when it is past,” read the child, “and as a watch in the
night. Thou carriest them away as with a flood, they are
as a sleep; in the morning they are like grass which
groweth up. In the morning it flourisheth and groweth
up, in the evening it is cut down and withered.”
“Cut down and withered,” repeated the old woman, in
a low voice, “bless de Lord, but we grows agin.”
“For we are consumed by thine anger, and by thy
-- 236 --
[figure description] Page 236.[end figure description]
wrath are we troubled,” read Lucia. “Thou hast set our
iniquities before thee, our secret sins in the light of thy
countenance. For all our days are passed away in thy
wrath. We spend our years as a tale that is told.”
The child's head drooped as she read those words, and
she murmured something which the old woman did not
hear.
“The days of our years are threescore years and ten;
and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is
their strength labor and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and
we fly away.”
“And we fly away!” repeated Aunt Phillis, in a low
voice.
The child read the whole, and then closed the book.
“The sound o' that makes me feel a blessed feelin',” said
the old woman, “no matter how dreadful it is, we knows
it is washed away!”
And Aunt Phillis began to sing to herself, in that low
touching tone, which those who have heard it once never
forget. Lucia thought she had better leave the old woman
in this happy mood—and so taking the Bible, which she
knew Aunt Phillis did not want at the moment, she stole
softly out, and ascended to her poor chamber with her
treasure.
A bran new Bible already lay there on the table.
-- 237 -- p506-244
CHAPTER XVII. ELLIE'S DRESS DOES NOT FIT HER.
[figure description] Page 237.[end figure description]
Lucia could not doubt for a moment who had sent her
the Bible, and she knelt down and prayed, and poured
out her whole heart fervently, and rose with a lighter
heart.
All that despondency which had preyed upon her spirit,
was passing away, and the light of that new life, which
dawned upon her, flooded her heart with unspeakable
gratitude and thanks. God had heard her. And if, with
the pure gratitude of the child to heaven, some tender
gratitude toward the rough, but kind-hearted and true
boy were mingled, none will find fault with her for that—
even though this exhibition of his love for her, made her
cheek flush with pleasure.
She did not know that Wide-Awake had gone and entered—
contrary to his wishes and fixed principles—once
more into the newspaper business; and drawn a week's
salary in advance, and hastened to purchase the Bible with
the whole of it, trusting to Providence for meat and bread,
for those seven days! And such faith never is in vain.
Oh, friend, that readest these unworthy lines; for heaven
watches over those who love so truly, and give nobly;
and the invisible messengers of air and earth bring food
to them.
So Lucia had her own Bible, and her warm tears fell
upon it, for her heart was melted in her bosom, and she
cried—a lonely child, but not alone with that most
-- 238 --
[figure description] Page 238.[end figure description]
precious friend. Stronger than stormy winds and biting cold,
and all the arrows of adversity, it filled her heart with
warmth and happiness.
She repaired on the next morning to Aunt Phillis'
cellar, and commenced the task she had undertaken. She
brought water from the old pump, some distance down the
street, and fixed the irons, and then with Aunt Phillis
looking serenely and kindly upon her, applied herself to
the momentous task. Aunt Phillis was scarcely able to
leave her bed, by now, but managed to rise, and iron a
shirt at intervals, as though she wished to persuade herself
that she was not incapacitated from work. But even
one shirt was a hard task to the feeble old woman, and
Lucia insisted on her sitting down.
The child performed her work so well, that by noon she
had accomplished an amount of work, which Aunt Phillis
declared really astonishing. And then the simple dinner
was prepared, and, thereafter, Lucia got ready to carry
home the clothes which were “due” that evening.
Aunt Phillis gave her the most explicit directions, and
she had no difficulty in finding the houses. Going from
street to street over the frozen snow, in the dim afternoon,
the child found herself thrown with a new and strange
class of persons, whose homes she had never before
entered. The lace undersleeves, to which Aunt Phillis
had referred, seemed to be ardently expected by the rosy
child, who ran forward to receive them from Lucia, in the
rich home of her mother.
“Oh!” the little maiden cried, “it ain't Aunt Phillis!
Who are you?—you are prettier than Aunt Phillis.”
-- 239 --
[figure description] Page 239.[end figure description]
“My name is Lucia,” was the smiling reply; and unconsciously
the eyes of the child wandered to the splendid
furniture of the wealthy mansion.
“Lucia! Oh, what a pretty name! And you are
very pretty, Lucia, prettier than I am—only my frock's
nicer than yours!”
And the little maiden smoothed down her beautiful, rich
frock, and gazed with pride upon its embroidered flounces.
“We 're going to have a child's party to night, Lucia,”
said the little damsel, going up to Lucia, and looking at
her curiously with her great eyes; “don't you wish you
were to be here?”
“No—I think not,” said Lucia, softly; “I hope you
will be happy.”
“Oh, we are sure to have a delightful time. Mamma
has made a lovely cake, and it 's all covered with icing—
and Uncle Robert's coming to play games for us, and
make tableaus—I wonder what they are—and Cousin
Lucy 's coming, too; and we 're to have a dance, and—
oh! we 'll be so happy!—can't you stay and eat some
cake, Lucia. I am sure you are good, because you are so
pretty.”
“I don't think I can stay,” faltered Lucia, whose heart
was touched by the kind mirth of the little girl, “I have
my work at home to do.”
Work! Oh, what a pity! Do you work? Oh, yes!
you mean your French lesson—how I hate my French
lesson! But I have n't got any to-night! This is my
new dress, and we 're to be so happy! Mamma 's given
me a new lace collar, and she says we may light the
-- 240 --
[figure description] Page 240.[end figure description]
chandelier, and—oh! how foolish I am! All this time I 've
been forgetting my undersleeves. How nicely they are
done—how nice I 'll look. Good bye!”
And running up stairs with the coveted articles of
clothing, the child disappeared, the kind smile still upon
her face, turned toward Lucia.
The closing door shut out all that warmth and happiness;
but Lucia had in her heart a larger and truer
happiness still—which no cold could deprive her of. No
bitter or repining thought for a moment entered her mind,
and she said only, “What a happy little girl, and what a
tender voice she has!” And so the child went back to
her cold, bare room, and lighting her piece of candle, read
her Bible, shivering as she read—while under the brilliant
chandelier, the kind little maiden romped, and laughed, and
played, and told her friends what a sweet looking girl had
come “just before dark, to bring her things.” And then
Uncle Robert fixed the tableaus, and they were as merry
a parcel of happy children as the light of joy had ever
shone upon.
When Lucia covered herself with the old tattered
counterpane, and sank to sleep, with a last murmured
prayer, her heart was full of warmth, and joy, and love,
such as no words could utter. Sleeping, her parted lips
still smiled, as infant lips do in the downy cradles, which
fond mothers, bending down above until the balmy breath
is on their cheeks, press to their own with whispered
blessings. Sleeping, the hand of love seemed pressed
upon the eyelids, and the dews of slumber softened the
tender features, rounding every line—and peace was in
-- 241 --
[figure description] Page 241.[end figure description]
the heart which dreamed of love and beauty, and the light
of heaven.
The child rose early and repaired to Aunt Phillis' cellar.
But that indefatigable matron was already up, and
had made her own fire, and set the kettle on for breakfast.
“Bless de Lord, honey,” said Aunt Phillis, feebly, “I 's
quite strong yit, an' I kin do all but wash an' ir'n. The
strength in the arms is gone, and bendin' over makes my
back ache—God knows my back do ache—but I kin see to
breakfas'.”
“I am glad you feel so well, Aunt Phillis,” said Lucia.
“I ain't well, chile—I 'm poorly, thank God, an' to his
name be the praise, amen! Stop, chile!” added the old
woman, “don't you be a-gittin' out that clothes-horse.”
“Why, Aunt Phillis?”
“There ain't a-goin to be no washin' here to-day.”
Lucia's look asked the reason.
“'Cause sister Marthy and the rest is comin' to hold a
little pray'r meetin',” said aunt Phillis, understanding
and replying to the look, “brother Wilkison's comin',
too, an' I want you to set right about gettin' ready the
things.”
“The things, aunt Philis?”
“The very things, chile—de Lord he knows it would'nt
be a right pray'r meetin' if de bretheren had'nt somethin'
after all thayr singin'.”
With which aunt Phillis gave Lucia sundry directions—
and after long and dubious reflection, entrusted
her with the keys of the mysterious press, the opening of
which she narrowly and jealously watched
-- 242 --
[figure description] Page 242.[end figure description]
Lucia soon got out the things which aunt Phillis desired:
and then she set to work, under the old lady's
directions, and prepared the material for the collation to
be laid before aunt Phillis' visitors.
“Them's all mine,” said aunt Phillis, with satisfaction.
“I ain't come on the 'sociation yit.”
“The what, aunt Phillis?”
“The 'sociation, chile. De Lord help us! ain't you
hearn 'bout the Social Band?”
Lucia said she had not.
“We dresses,” said aunt Phillis, plunging boldly into
the middle of things, “we dresses in white bonnets, trim'
wid black—white cuffs an' cape, and dress of black likewise.
We pays a eight in pence 'bout ev'ry month or so,
an' sister Beel is cash-er. When we's sick they comes an'
sets up with us, an' the 'sociation pays, don't care what it
is. They does all nice—so nice! an' buries you wid
pleasure—they does;—its mighty pleasant now, I do
assure you, chile!”
Lucia said that the association must be a great assistance
to the sick, and then finished the preparations, and
asked aunt Phillis if she needed her father.
“No my chile,” said the old lady, “sister Beel 'll do
the rest, an' you oughtn't to make your young cheeks thin
a-workin' all the day. Set down now an' eat a good
breakfas', an' then the brethren will be 'bout comin'.”
Lucia drank some tea and ate a biscuit, and then told
aunt Phillis good-bye, and went up to her room. Just as
she sat down before the small fire of splinters, a knock
came at her door, and Ellie entered, smiling sweetly, and
-- 243 --
[figure description] Page 243.[end figure description]
carrying in her hand a bundle. Her face was full of
pleasure, and the hand which she placed on Lucia's head,
gently caressed the dark hair.
The children kissed each other, as their custom was,
and then Ellie held up the bundle and placed it in Lucia's
hands.
“Look what a pretty present a lady gave me, Lucia!”
she said.
“Oh!” said Lucia, unrolling it, “why, Ellie, it is a
warm, good dress.”
“Yes, it is warm and good, and I am so glad! You
know your old one is so thin, Lucia!”
“My old one!”
“The one you have on. I had that dress, and it is a
great deal too large for me. Miss Aurelia gave it to me—
and I want you to have it, dear Lucia. I will not.”
And Ellie's face was radiant with pleasure and
goodness.
Her pleasure in offering her only comfortable dress to
her friend was as evident as anything could possibly
be, and for a moment Lucia remained overcome by her
question, and remained silent.
-- 244 -- p506-251
CHAPTER XVIII. DOCTOR FOSSYL AND HIS THEORIES.
[figure description] Page 244.[end figure description]
Lucia, as we have said, could not speak for some
moments; but then recovering her voice, sat down, and,
bursting into tears, sobbed:
“Oh, Ellie! how much better you are than I am!”
She cried more than ever as she spoke, and Ellie felt
like crying, too.
Lucia wept on and covered her face, and shook with
emotion.
“Oh, what are you crying for! what makes you cry,
Lucia!” she exclaimed, throwing her arms around the
child's neck, “please do not cry!”
“It is because you are so kind,” murmured Lucia,
“you and everybody. Oh, I cannot, cannot take your
dress.
“Indeed, indeed you must, Lucia,” said Ellie, “I do
not want it, and I know you do. I saw you going out
in the cold yesterday evening, and you had no wrapping,
and I thought you would have frozen. Oh, indeed,
indeed, Lucia! it makes me happier to give my dress to
you than to wear it myself; and you will not make me
feel badly by refusing it! It is much too large for me—
I am so small—but it will just fit you with a little off of
the skirt. Dear Lucia! indeed, indeed, I do not
want it!”
And Ellie smoothed the disordered hair of her friend
-- 245 --
[figure description] Page 245.[end figure description]
and leaned her own brown locks against the dark curls
of the child.
Lucia could as yet only sob and utter inarticulate expressions
of thanks: but she soon raised her head, and
looked at Ellie with her sad smile, which, indeed, seemed
to be a peculiarity alike of both the children.
“You are a dear kind girl, Ellie,” she said, “but,
indeed, I cannot take the dress. Ellie, I don't know if
it's pride—maybe a sinful pride—or if it is my love for
you: but nothing could make me take from you the only
warm dress you have. The one you have on is very thin;
and this will be so nice and comfortable. Indeed, I do
not want it, Ellie—I am not—very—cold. Please do
not ask me any more, and don't think hard of me for not
taking it!”
With which words Lucia leaned her head upon Ellie's
shoulder and pressed the hand she held to her lips.
As they sat thus a great artist would have rejoiced to
have seen them, and to have made them beautiful forever
upon canvass. If love and tenderness and goodness filling
every feature—eyes and lips, and brow—make faces
beautiful; then the countenances of Ellie and Lucia were
more fair and lovely than the happiest dreams.
This tenderness and affection was so unmistakeable that
it caused something like a faint tinge of color to enter the
cheek of the sallow individual who, looking through the
crack of the door, witnessed the scene, and heard the conversation
of the children.
Doctor Fossyl had come up stairs with his “shoes of
silence”—a not unusual circumstance with him; and
-- 246 --
[figure description] Page 246.[end figure description]
hearing voices in Lucia's room, had softly approached,
and without ceremony, looked and listened, with the cynical
desire to hear something to support his theory of
human meanness and selfishness. As the struggle between
Lucia and Ellie proceeded, the physician's sneer
had faded, his eye-brows had retreated from each other,
and his yellow cheek had almost turned to comely red.
Surely this man must have had in his heart, when young,
some stuff which had long since been smothered, or trodden
out by his poor cheerless philosophy of scorn, suspicion,
and incredulity in human motives.
The expression of his countenance as he listened, was
not at all such as those who knew him were accustomed to
find in it. An almost tender smile rose to the thin and
bloodless lips, and the eyes, under their shaggy brows,
grew soft and pitiful.
In a moment, however, this expression disappeared,
and his face assumed its habitual coldness. He knocked
rudely at the door and said, with an affectation of having
just reached the spot:
“Who is in this room! what voices are those?”
Ellie rose and went to the door, and curtseyed.
“This is Lucia's room, sir,” she said; “Lucia is my
friend.”
“Your friend! hum! Let us see this Miss Lucia!”
And the surly physician thrust his head in at the door
and scowled at Lucia. She replied to this stare with a
look so soft and humble that the cynic drew back growling.
“Well, very well!” he said, “that's all mighty fine!
-- 247 --
[figure description] Page 247.[end figure description]
Friends! what right have the poor to friendship. That
is a luxury of the rich, who, as everybody knows, are very
tender and friendly and disinterested! Come, you, madam—
Ellie is your name, I believe—I have no time to lose.
Where's your father?”
“He's my uncle, sir—he's in the room here.”
And Ellie went before the physician, and entered the
apartment of Joe Lacklitter.
Uncle Joe was sitting as usual before the small fire,
with a blanket around his shoulders, and Charley was
painfully struggling with the assistance of a slate and
pencil to arrive at the solution of the problem:—What
would fifty lady-cakes, two for a cent, come to in money?
This sum had been “set” for him by Ellie, and the youthful
brains of Charley were in a state of lamentable confusion
on the subject of the solution. The sight of Doctor
Fossyl did not aid him, and in the terror of the moment
he dashed down an answer which raised the price of lady-cakes
astonishingly in the market.
“How are you to-day, Lacklitter?” said the Doctor,
“as to that young man there who is staring at me with
his mouth open, like a stuck pig, he's always well!”
And Doctor Fossyl scowled at Charley in so terrible
a way, that the young gentleman dropped his slate and
flew for refuge to Ellie's apron.
“Oh, yes, I'm a monster and an ogre,” said the Doctor,
“I feed on children—I eat 'em whole! I'd like to broil
you, sir, and serve you up at breakfast!”
Having thus annihilated Charley, Doctor Fossyl turned
again to uncle Joe and growled.
-- 248 --
[figure description] Page 248.[end figure description]
“I'm obleeged to you, Doctor,” said Joe, “I think I'm
better 'n' better.”
“Why don't you get well?”
“I think I will soon, sir!”
“Soon! Let me see your tongue!”
Joe extended that member.
“Furry and bad,” said Doctor Fossyl, “you're going
entirely too fast. What do you eat?”
“Mighty little, sir—I ain't got any appetite yet—
least-ways—”
“You'd better not have one, or if you do, you'd better
curb it;” said the doctor. “Does this child cook for
you?”
And he pointed to Ellie, who sat quietly in the corner.
“Yes, sir,” Joe said, “she is a good, loving girl, and
we're gittin' on very well. Mr. Sansoucy's very kind, and
the Lord be thanked.”
This speech seemed to anger Doctor Fossyl, and he
growled contemptuously,
“Mr. Sansoucy! a shallow fellow, who knows nothing!
He thinks it mighty fine, I suppose, to be `charitable!'
I suppose, you, Miss,” he added, turning to Ellie, “are
going to fall in love with this fine Seigneur, and set your
cap at him?”
“Sir!” said Ellie, quite bewildered.
“You pretend you don't understand!”
“Understand, sir!”
“Bah! what affectation! How old are you?”
“I'm eleven, sir.”
“It don't attack 'em till they're older,” said the cynic.
-- 249 --
[figure description] Page 249.[end figure description]
Ellie gazed with a puzzled look upon the doctor.
“Very well,” he said, “that's mighty fine—what noise
is that? What terrible sound is that I hear?”
“I think it's Aunt Phillis, holding her prayer meeting,
sir.”
“Her prayer meeting?”
“Yes, sir!”
Doctor Fossyl's sallow countenance grew absolutely
livid with disgust, and he seemed to wish that an earthquake
would swallow the hypocrites whose noise annoyed
him. Nevertheless, no earthquake came, and the hymn
resounded from Aunt Phillis' cellar, louder and louder,
until the old house was filled with it.
“Is that the old woman I went down to see?” the
doctor gasped.
“Yes, sir,” said Ellie.
“She is holding a prayer meeting?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I renounce her,” said Doctor Fossyl, stretching
forth his hand, wrathfully; “she may change her physician.
I'm sick of hypocrisy, and yet this is no worse than that
of your fine Mr. Sansoucy. Bah! how sick it makes me!
What are you staring at the door and listening for, Miss?”
he growled, looking at Ellie.
Ellie did not reply, but, rising, looked more intently at
the door, with a joyous light in her eyes. A step was then
heard, a knock came to the door, and Ellie, running forward,
met upon the threshold, with her sweetest smile, the
gentleman, whose merits were in progress of discussion—
Mr. Sansoucy.
-- 250 -- p506-257
CHAPTER XIX. THE HYMN.
[figure description] Page 250.[end figure description]
“Ah, Ellie! my good little Ellie! always glad to see
me,” said Sansoucy, entering, “and Doctor Fossyl! How
do you do, Doctor? and you, Joe, and Charley?”
Having distributed which comprehensive salute, Mr.
Sansoucy sat down.
“I do well,” growled Doctor Fossyl.
“That is an agreeable circumstance,” said Sansoucy.
“How's the patient?”
“Getting better.”
“He'll soon be out?”
“Yes.”
“I'm glad.”
“And I don't care!”
“Oh, you don't care for anything, my dear Doctor,
you're a philosopher.”
“And, therefore, you despise me.”
“No, I'm nearly one myself.”
“A pretty philosopher!”
“Who don't believe in the lights of the Eighteenth Century,
you would add. Well, Doctor, don't let us resume
that subject—you are right, however, I don't!”
And Mr. Sansoucy smiled.
“Here is a little philosopher, who strikes me as superior
to D'Alembert, Voltaire, Diderot, and the whole
crowd.”
“Who are you talking about?”
-- 251 --
[figure description] Page 251.[end figure description]
“Ellie.”
“That child?”
“Yes.”
“A philosopher, forsooth—of the Sansoucy school,
doubtless!”
“Why, Doctor, what a biting wit you have, this morning!
No, Ellie is not of the without-care school—she is
rather of the earnest persuasion.”
And Mr. Sansoucy applauded his jest with favorable
laughter. There was, as we have said, about this gentleman,
a good humor that was better than wit; and certainly
no wit, however fiery and brilliant, ever produced
the cheerful influence which his good nature did. Even
Doctor Fossyl seemed to feel that, judging by its fruits,
his own philosophy of life was narrower and less true
than this opposed to it—but like all men convinced
against their will, he refused indignantly to be persuaded.
“Yes,” he said: “you've got a very enthusiastic follower
in this young miss, who, it seems, is the paragon
of perfection and human goodness. I wish you joy, and
advise you to train her up in the way she should go, and
bestow your lordship's hand upon the maiden.”
“My hand!”
“Yes, marry her!”
The idea seemed to tickle Mr. Sansoucy very much,
and he laughed heartily. Then apparently reflecting that
this exhibition of merriment might be misconstrued by
his opponent, he said:
“Faith! Doctor, I really do not think your advice so
bad, after all.”
-- 252 --
[figure description] Page 252.[end figure description]
“You acknowledge then—?”
“That I love Ellie? Yes, my dear Doctor. Don't I,
Ellie?”
And Mr. Sansoucy smoothed the child's hair with a
kind hand, and smiled.
“Indeed, sir, I love you for all your goodness,” Ellie
said, simply.
“Mighty pretty!” sneered Doctor Fossyl; “coo-coo!
coo-coo! two doves! Come, let me see how people
make love!”
Sansoucy smiled, and said:
“I really can't oblige you, Doctor—the affection Ellie
and myself feel for each other is already made, though
not perhaps in the mould you think. I'm afraid that
Ellie scarcely stood a fair chance there!”
And Mr. Sansoucy again laughed, but this time with
something like a sigh. Ellie caught the imperceptible
sound, and looked up into the kind face.
“See here, Doctor,” said Sansoucy; “here is the
proof of Ellie's regard. She heard me groan, just now,
and it troubles her.”
“Nonsense!” muttered Doctor Fossyl: “really the
greatest trifler I have ever known, and seems to be proud
of it! Well, sir,” he said aloud: “am I to go on visiting
here?”
“Go on?”
“Yes, I say go on.”
“Why, certainly—until Joe is well.”
“You pay?”
Sansoucy laughed, and said:
-- 253 --
[figure description] Page 253.[end figure description]
“I pay.”
“Very good,” replied Doctor Fossyl, rising. “I'll
come again to-morrow, and prescribe—this patient may
have a month before him yet.”
“So long!”
“Yes—what are you surprised at?”
“Why, at the failure of the great Doctor Fossyl in—”
“Raising a man instantaneously from a fever, you
would say, I suppose. Well, sir, be surprised. I have
no time to talk. I have a hundred visits to pay before
the opera.”
And Doctor Fossyl rose.
As he did so, the loud resounding hymn from Aunt
Phillis' cellar, commenced again, and the walls fairly
shook with it.
“Who is singing, Ellie?” said Mr. Sansoucy; “I
heard something as I came in—what is it?”
“Aunt Phillis has a prayer-meeting, sir,” Ellie said.
“Oh!” said Sansoucy: “the old woman down there!”
“The old hypocritical hag down there!” growled Doctor
Fossyl.
“Hush, Doctor, let us listen to the incantation ceremony,”
said Sausoucy: “listen!”
And the company were silent.
The hymn, which had paused in its flow for a time as
though to gather strength for a more resounding burst,
now soared aloft, and made the windows shake with its
full flood of strange and touching harmony. It was one
of those rude devotional lyrics which seem to have had
their birth and cradle in the great pine forests, among
-- 254 --
[figure description] Page 254.[end figure description]
simple people—often among negroes—though this was
not of the latter description. A fit accompaniment to its
wild and triumphant cadences would have been the solemn
murmur of those haughty tufts which throw their shadows
on the homely meeting houses buried in the forests, and
surrounded by the simplicity of nature.
As it rose now, it seemed to speak of the country, of
the solemn depths of ancient woods, and its rudeness
made the general effect more striking.
The disconnected words which reached the ears of the
silent auditors, were something like this:
“O! what ship is this that will take us all home
O! glory, halleluia!
O! what ship is this that will take us all home?
O! glory, halleluia!
'Tis the old ship of Zion—halleluia!
'Tis the old ship of Zion—halleluia!
“Do you think she will be able for to take us all home?
O! glory, halleluia!
Do you think she will be able for to take us all home?
O! glory, halleluia!
O yes! she will be able—halleluia!
O yes! she will be able—halleluia!
“She has landed many thousands, and she'll land as many more!
O! glory, halleluia!
She has landed many thousands, and she'll land as many more!
O! glory, halleluia!
She will land them over Jordan—halleluia!
She will land them over Jordan—halleluia!
Come along! come along!—and let's go home
O! glory, halleluia!
Come along! come along!—and let's go home!
O! glory, halleluia!
Our home it is in heaven—halleluia!
Our home it is in heaven—halleluia!
-- 255 --
[figure description] Page 255.[end figure description]
The mournful melody of the negro manner of singing,
gaye a strange effect to this hymn, and when it paused,
there was silence in the chamber of Joe Lacklitter. Before
the cynical physician could utter any of his usual
commentaries, however, the voices commenced again;
and again the solemn hymn resounded. This time it was
one, the burden of which, constantly repeated was:
“Come to Jesus, just now!”
and this was sung with the same deep devotion which
had characterized the former. It had its effect even upon
the physician, and when it ceased, he stood for some
moments without speaking, with a strange impression in
his deep-set eyes.
“Well,” he said at last, “I suppose I have remained
long enough listening to this: I have something else to
attend to.”
“A moment,” said Sansoucy, “tell me first, my dear
Doctor, whether you don't think those rude people down
there happier than you and me?”
“I think nothing!” said Doctor Fossyl, with a sharp
look, “good morning, sir!”
And he went out.
“There goes a man who has fed on food which poisons
us,” murmured Sansoucy, “what a pity!”
-- 256 -- p506-263
CHAPTER XX. CONTAINS AN ACCOUNT OF MONSIEUR GUILLEMOT'S BANKRUPTCY.
[figure description] Page 256.[end figure description]
Sansoucy stood thus for some moments, gazing after
the physician, with that wistful, almost melancholy smile,
which gave at times so singular an expression to his countenance;
and then, as though returning once more to the
realms of reality, turned round, and smiled, and patted
Ellie's head, and took his seat beside Joe Lacklitter.
One of Mr. Sansoucy's peculiarities, as we have said,
we believe, already,—or at least should have said—was a
habit of interesting himself in simple things, and unpretending
objects. He might have said, with a great writer,
“I have seen too much of success in life, to take off my
hat and huzza to it, as it passes in its gilt coach, and would
do my little part with my neighbors on foot, that they
should not gape with too much wonder, nor applaud too
loudly. It is the Lord Mayor going in state to mincepies
and the mansion-house! It is poor Jack of Newgate's
procession, with the sheriff and javelin-men, conducting
him on his journey to Tyburn? I look into my heart and
think I am as good as my Lord Mayor, and know I am
as bad as Tyburn Jack.” Sansoucy had seen so much
in his journeyings, and from that singular part of journalist,
that he had grown incredulous of the judgments which
the world formed of the men and things which figure on
the stage of life, and so making for himself an unique philosophy,
had accepted that alone to shape his conduct by.
-- 257 --
[figure description] Page 257.[end figure description]
He had seen so many reputations rise aloft like rockets,
startling the beholders, and then fade and die—so many
“celebrities” had blazed before him in his day, and then
gone out, that, young in years as he still was, life scarcely
possessed for him those mysteries and illusions, which it
has for the greater part of the world. This feeling had
driven him, as it drives every man who loves the truth, to
a fervid admiration for simplicity and goodness: and it
was in simple scenes, and honest motives, that this gentleman
found his greatest pleasure. He liked to be with
children, and would throw his pen aside, and dismiss his
wearying meditation, to cater their amusement. Their
innocent prattle pleased him, and when once this softer
influence had made itself felt, he became the most delightful
companion for the young—sharing their sports, and
growing young again himself.
Sansoucy had found in Ellie, that simplicity and goodness,
which he bowed before, saluting it as worthiest; and
thus, perhaps, there was more truth than the contrary in
his declaration, that he deserved no thanks for his assistance.
He found in the child, and in Joe Lacklitter, too,
companions such as he desired; and, perhaps, his greatest
pleasure was his visits to the humble abode of the poor
paper-carrier. The reader will judge, in due time, whether
there was not still another hidden and mysterious bond,
which drew him toward Ellie, and the child to him. But
we will not anticipate.
After the departure of Doctor Fossyl, a feeling of comparative
unrestraint and freedom was visible in the
-- 258 --
[figure description] Page 258.[end figure description]
countenances of all; and then commenced a cheerful, friendly
conversation, in which even Charley had his due part.
When Ellie looked at, or answered Mr. Sansoucy, her
face was full of a happy light, and her soft eyes beamed
with that tender gratitude, which perhaps is the most
beautiful expression of the human countenance. Ellie
had in her hand the dress which Lucia could not be prevailed
upon to receive; and this at last became the subject
of one of Mr. Sansoucy's smiling remarks.
“You liked Miss Aurelia, did you, Ellie?” he said;
“you should have seen her when she wore that dress at
the ball the other night! What a mistake young ladies
make when they suppose that gentlemen prefer them
decked out in silks and satins, pearls and diamonds!
They do not believe that men believe—the better portion—
that
“A simple maiden in her flower,
Is worth a hundred coats of arms.”
Or coats of cloth of gold! You see I'm quoting from
the poets, Miss. And so you liked Aurelia?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” said Ellie.
Mr. Sansoucy smiled, and said:
“What feature of her face struck you as the finest?”
“I did not take notice of anything, sir, very well,” Ellie
returned, “it was her goodness I liked so.”
“Then her eyes were the prominent subjects of your
admiration—were they not, Ellie?”
“Her eyes, sir?”
-- 259 --
[figure description] Page 259.[end figure description]
“Yes, I believe the eyes contain more expression than
any other portion of the face.”
“She had lovely blue eyes, I remember, sir.”
“So she has!” said Mr. Sansoucy, sighing and smiling.
“Do you know, Ellie, I am going to fall in love with Miss
Aurelia?”
“In love, sir? Oh, yes—I understand,” Ellie said,
laughing and blushing; “are you, sir?”
“Am I! There you are with your simplicity! I am
very much afraid that I have already done so, madam.
Do you approve of the match? But how I jest!” laughed
Mr. Sansoucy. “What were you doing with your dress?”
“I—I—was—Lucia was looking at it,” said Ellie, not
wishing to tell Mr. Sansoucy of her offer.
“Lucia?” he said.
“Yes, sir—the organ-grinder's daughter, who lives in
yonder—”
“An organ-grinder's daughter!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why, this house is a real hive! Aunt Phillis in the
cellar—you here, Joe—Lucia yonder—and, as I live,
there 's some one walking in the room above!”
“That 's Mr. Gillymore, sir,” Joe said, “and there, he 's
a-comin' down; I heard his door jist now, as he opened it.”
As Joe spoke, steps were heard upon the stairs, and
then steps came down the stairway, and stopped at the
door of Joe's apartment.
“He 's comin' here,” said Joe.
And so it proved.
As he spoke, the door was opened slightly, a head
-- 260 --
[figure description] Page 260.[end figure description]
thrust itself through the aperture, and a polite and polished
voice uttered the monysyllable, “ha! ha!”
“Faith!” cried Sansoucy, if it isn't Guillemot!
you live here, Monsieur, mon ami! Is it possible!”
“Monsieur Sansouci!” cried the head, with a strong
French accent, and an unmistakeable emphasis upon the
latter syllable of the journalist's name. “I 'ave ze
plaizir of see Monsieur Sansoucí!”
“Certainly,” said Sansoucy, laughing. Come in—we 're
all friends.”
Monsieur Guillemot opened the door and entered, bowing
and shrugging his shoulders, with a profusion of polite
exclamations. He was a little man, of about forty-five or
fifty, wore a wig elaborately powdered, exhibited a profusion
of frill at his bosom, and his feet were covered with
list slippers of the gaudiest appearance. One hand was
thrust into a boot, which Monsieur Guillemot had apparently
been cleaning; the other now pressed the heart of
the owner of the boot, and waved itself politely in general
salutation.
“Sainte Marïe!” cried Monsieur Guillemot, as he
entered and received a cordial shake of Sansoucy's hand;
“I see my friend Mossier Sansoucí! Ha! ha! ze worl'
is strange—bien etrange!”
“What 's strange, my dear friend?” said Sansoucy.
“To come so on one friend—one ver' good friend!
nevare sink to—”
“Well, my dear fellow,” said Sansoucy, “no matter
what you think; the world is full of surprises—a fact I
need not take the trouble to prove to Monsieur Guillemot.”
-- 261 --
[figure description] Page 261.[end figure description]
“Mon Dieu c'est vrai!” replied the old Frenchman,
shaking his head, and consequently his foot.
“Who would have thought to see the elegant Monsieur
Guillemot, maitre d'armes at the shooting and fencing
gallery, in slippers—like an ordinary man! It's positively
amazing!” said Sansoucy.
This turn of the conversation seemed to please and
interest Monsieur Guillemot, and he evidently appreciated
the adjective “elegant,” to its full extent.
“Non non Monsieur,” he said, shaking his head and
shrugging his shoulders; “I was elegant long time ago—
I was garçon, beau garçon, my friends say. But all that
is pass, mossieu; I grow veillard.”
“You, Monsieur Guillemot! you astonish me. You
are still a beau—and I often hear my friends of a certain
age say that not ten years ago you were quite a child
and kept the best and most elegant establishment in
town.”
“Ah oui!” cried Monsieur Guillemot, “I was young
once; and I keep one ver fine house. I 'ave dominoes,
I 'ave cafe—I 'ave canoees back duck—deliceuse! I 'ave
faisant, I 'ave oystare—I 'ave de canoees back duck, mos
delicieuse—Oh! delicieuse! delicieuse! mossieu!”
And Monsieur Guillemot shrugged his shoulders and
closed his eyes in ecstacy.
“That was in the good old days, was it not?” said Sansoucy,
smiling; “you got tired of that life, eh? Late
hours, and so on.”
“I tire!” cried Monsieur Guillemot, “Oh, non! non,
Mossieu Sansouci: I break!
-- 262 --
[figure description] Page 262.[end figure description]
And the old Frenchman's head sank, and with it the
foot—a melancholy shadow passing over his countenance.
“I no get tire, Mossieu!” he said, mournfully, but
with a fantastic sort of resignation which made his countenance
a pleasant sight to see. “I no get tire, mon cher,
Mossieu! I break. Ze ole compaynie come no more to
see me—zey grow up—I keep my house all ze same. Ze
ole compaynie in ze ole times drop in of evenings, and
say, `Bon jour, Mossieu Guillemot! Some cafe s'il vous
plait, some oystare—Ah, Mossieur, one canoeese back
delicieuse!' An' I say, `Messieurs, ze honneur of Guillemot
is pledge to you, and all shall be sur la table, in one
instant. Bon—and so zey set down and play dominoes,
and smile—so elegant—and say, what nice house, Mossieu
Guillemot conduct—and so ze cafe come—zey drink—zey
pay—and smile, and bow, and say, Bon jour Mossieu,
mon ami—good day, my dear sir and friend. What
polite gentlemen! Ah ha! this no last all ze time. Ze
young men come—zey no say Mossieu Guillemot! some
cafe, if you please! Non! zey cry out, cocktail! smash!
oystare! vite!!! mak' 'aste! 'an then zey no pay nothing,
Mossieu. Ze long bills break me, Mossieu Sansoucí.
Poor Guillemot is bank-a-root—he is bank-a-root, Mossieur
Sansouci—c'est tout!”
And pausing with a flush upon his countenance, Monsieu
Guillemot's head drooped. Before Sansoucy could
speak, however, this flush passed away, and the old
Frenchman's face grew smiling and cheerful again; and
glancing at his boot, he cried with all the vivacity of a
veritable garçon;
-- 263 --
[figure description] Page 263.[end figure description]
“Sainte Maire! quelle betise. My botte! Mossieur,
my neighbors,” he added, to Joe Lacklitter,” 'ave you,
per'aps some blackeeng?”
Joe shook his head, and said he was very sorry, but he
had not; at which Monsieur Guillemot's countenance
was seen to assume an expression of decided gloom.
“Nevare mind! nevare mind!” he said, however, in a
moment; “I clean my boots ver well. I 'ave much
plaisir in 'aving seen my friends—and mam'selle Ellie's
face is always like ze sunshine.”
With which elegant speech Monsieur Guillemot was
going out of the room.
“Are you fixing to go to the gallery, Monsieur Guillemot?”
said Satsoucy.
“Sur l'instant! in one moment, Mossieur!” said the
old Frenchman.
“Well, I will wait for you. Come by as you descend,
and we will go together.
This arrangement seemed to please Monsieur Guillemot,
and ten minutes after ascending he came down, wrapped
in his old travelling cloak, and carrying under his arm a
bundle of foils.
Sansoucy with a last kind word to Joe and Ellie, and
a promise to bring Charley a present of gingerbread in a
day or two, left the humble room with the fencing-master,
who muttered as he went with a smile, “Poor Guillemot
is bank-a-root, Mossieur Sansoucí, bank-a-root!!'
-- 264 -- p506-271
CHAPTER XXI. RECOLLECTIONS OF AUNT PHILLIS.
[figure description] Page 264.[end figure description]
Let us now return to Lucia and her friends, from
whom we have been diverted by the appearance of Doctor
Fossyl and Monsieur Guillemot.
As soon as the “company” left Aunt Phillis' cellar,
and scattered themselves on their various paths homeward,
Lucia went down to the old woman's apartment,
and assisted her in performing the various household
ceremonies which are necessary to the comfort of those
who are fond of neatness and order. In a little while,
the remains of the feast which Aunt Phillis had laid
before her friends were removed, and the old woman and
Lucia sat before the fire, and saw the gloomy evening
descend gradually, wrapping the streets and everything
in its chill cloud.
“Lord knows I b'lieve that hymn is made me stronger,”
said Aunt Phillis: “bless de Lord, I'll git sail in the ole
ship o' Zion over Jordan—I'm goin' over Jordan, chile—
now don't you say I ain't; de Lord do so to me, and
more also!”
With which Aunt Phillis relapsed into thought, and
remained for a long time silent. At last she said in a
low, feeling voice:
“'Seems to me all the ole days comin' back agin'.
They was a little boy ole master had, and I think I never
see a boy so smart. `Mammy Phillis! Mammy Phillis!'
he say: `Mammy Phillis, what a pretty moon it is!' and
then he say, `Papa, up there—bright, bright as day!'
-- 265 --
[figure description] Page 265.[end figure description]
An' he not three years ole, de Lord have mercy! Well,
well, this is a strange worl' I think—I think it is!
`bright, bright as day!”'
And Aunt Phillis laughed in a low tone.
“He was a mity pretty boy,” she went on; “prettier
an' any I mos' ever see: his face mos' shine! and I'm
seein' of him now a-playin' with his baby-house, and toddlin'
along, and makin' ev'rybody come and see it! Well—
well—well, de Lord, he knows it was a trial when he
was took down—an' when de flowers was tied upon his
coffin, 'seemed to me I liked to cried. Poor little thing—
but Jesus took him home! `Mammy,' says she—his
mother, my own blessed mistuss, says, my chile: `mammy,'
says she, a-cryin', with her hair all hangin' down,
and leanin' on the cradle': “mammy, he ain't cold, is he,
O! don't say he's cold!'—and when I say, `Now, mistuss,
you go right back whar you come from!' how she shaked
and cried! poor thing! The fust goes hard with em!—
but Jesus took him home!”
There was a strange pathos in the old woman's voice,
and in the gloom it sounded infinitely pitiful and touching.
“Dey buried him jis' when the sun was goin' down,
and never did I see a coffin that was littler! The flowers
was over it, and when they let it down thar in the e'rth,
it seemed mos' like he was a flower too. `Consider the
lilies of the field,'—and mistuss set a-cryin' in the carridge—
yes, she did!—poor mistuss! `Mammy,' says
she, that night: `they did'nt cut me any of his hair,'
says she. `Oh me!' says she: `why, why did God take
all I have away from me?' says she. And then she go
-- 266 --
[figure description] Page 266.[end figure description]
and fall down on her knees, and cry and say, `Thy will
be done—thy will be done, not mine,' says she. Poor
mistress, she's in heaven now, 'long with the baby an' ole
master. Jesus took 'em home.”
And Aunt Phillis rocked herself about, and began to
croon in a low voice:
“The lamb, the lamb, the bleeding lamb,
The lamb on Calvary;
The lamb that was slain, but lives again,
To intercede for me.”
Lucia was silent—only in the darkness her tears begun
to flow; and her heart was melted by the poor old
woman's memories. These memories seemed to possess
an infinite tenderness, and the voice of the old negro
woman penetrated to the subtle and hidden fountain of
tears. She seemed, thus, in a waking dream to see the
past defile before her with its thousand scenes of every
description—and even when those scenes, as now, were
sad. Still the sadness seemed to be removed from them
in some way, and they shone with a light brighter than
that of earth. Memory like a tablet covered with signs,
but crusted over by the thousand cares of life, seemed
now to be made whole again—to be cleared from the
obscuring material, and to shine in all its virgin purity.
Was it approaching death which thus removed the mould
from those impressions, and brought them out again so
plainly?
The old woman rambled on with many such memories
as this one we have set down in her own words; and
Lucia listened with a sad pleasure to the feeble words.
-- 267 --
[figure description] Page 267.[end figure description]
“Well, well, my chile,” Aunt Phillis at length said,
“I'm tirin' of you with my talkin'. Young folks don't
know what ole folks is seen. I'm thinkin' it'll be all right
in the end. `Let not your heart be troubled, neither let
it be afraid.' I wont live long, and ain't afeard to go.
My blessed Lord is callin' of me home, to glory. Yes,
my chile, I'm goin' home. Oh, Lord, my strength! I'm
comin' home!”
With which the old woman crooned to herself the lines
of a hymn, and taking a candle from the table lit it, and
asked Lucia to read some for her.
“What shall I read, Aunt Phillis?” said Lucia, in a
tremulous voice.
“Anywhere—everywhere—chile—De Lord, he knows I
like it anywhere—jist where you choose.”
Lucia opened the Bible, and her eyes fell on those verses
in which the great monarch of the Jews points as a warning
to youth, the drooping days of age, and the shadows
of approaching death.
“In the day,” Lucia read, “when the keepers of the
house shall tremble, and the strong men shall bow themselves,
and the grinders cease because they are few, and
those that look out of the window be darkened.”
“Be darkened,” murmured Aunt Phillis, “and the
light shineth in darkness.”
“When they shall be afraid of that which is high, and
fear shall be in their way, and the almond tree shall
flourish, and the grasshopper shall be a burden, and desire
shall fail, because man goeth to his long home, and
the mourners go about the streets.”
-- 268 --
[figure description] Page 268.[end figure description]
“And the mourner goeth about the streets,” repeated
Aunt Phillis, in a low voice.
“Or even the silken cord be loosened, or the golden
bowl be broken, or the pitcher be broken at the fountain,
or the wheel broken at the cistern. Then shall the dust
return to the earth, as it was, and the spirit shall return
unto God who gave it.'
“Oh, yes, my chile! return to God! Oh, yes,” said
the old woman, solemnly, “that'll do, don't read no more,
my chile—don't read no more.”
Lucia closed the book, and leaned her head upon her
hand, gazing sadly into the fire. As she sat thus, she
presented a strange contrast to the old negro woman,
trembling upon the verge of life, and passing slowly into
that darkness, which wraps from human eyes the mysterious
future. Young, of delicate and touching beauty,
and with that sad sweetness of eye and lip, which marks a
high nature, thrown, unprepared and weak, on the rude
surface of the world, Lucia could scarcely have presented
a more perfect contrast to her companion. There was one
thing in common, however, between these two beings—
one tie, which has bound together, nations and tongues
and peoples, in all ages—and this tie was stronger than
any earthly difference.
Lucia sat thus for some moments, gazing into the fire;
and then raising her head, said, with a sad smile:
“Aunt Phillis, I think I should like to die while I am
young—I would not like to live a long, long time.”
“Leave it to God, my chile,” said the old woman, “his
-- 269 --
[figure description] Page 269.[end figure description]
own appointed time is bes'; and none of us ain't got no
right to 'spect health always, or to 'scape ole age.”
“Oh, I didn't mean that?”
“Didn't mean what, my chile?”
“I didn't mean I was afraid of sickness or old age for
the pain: but it might make me impatient and rebellious.
I might think God had deserted me, because I suffered.”
“That ain't right, my child. We ain't got no right to
have sich feelin's. He doeth all things well, an' like as a
father pitieth his children—that's the way he sends down
weakness and sickness and sufferin', bless de Lord.”
“Oh, yes: and indeed, indeed, I did not mean to say I
would think God did not love me. Does he love me, Aunt
Phillis?—oh, does he love me?”
And Lucia covered her face and suppressed a sob, which
came to her lips.
“I know he does, my chile,” said Aunt Phillis, “I know
he does! Only believe!”
“Oh, yes, I do believe! indeed, indeed, I do! I have
been sick and sorrowful; but I am not sorrowful now! I
didn't know if I believed, before I saw you, Aunt Phillis,
but now I do!”
And the child bent and sobbed and murmured.
“Ellie made me think how sinful and rebellious I was,
and I thought I heard God speak to me, and often since
I thought he spoke to me! Oh, yes, Aunt Phillis, I believe—
with all my heart!—I am only a child—a poor
child—full of sin!—but—he will—not refuse me, when—I
kneel and pray to him!”
And overcome by emotion, the child's head drooped
-- 270 --
[figure description] Page 270.[end figure description]
still lower, and only a few broken sobs revealed the depth
of her agitation.
Let us pause here.
There are words which should not be repeated here for
the indifferent, perhaps the sneering, though for such we
care nothing—there are scenes which the writer lays down
his pen in presence of, and passes onward with respect and
silence as he gazes at them. Surely the pure emotion of
a child, in whose innocent heart the first seeds of a sublime
faith are sown, should not be laid bare, and dissected
in the cold, material spirit of the anatomist, who thrusts
his scalpel, with like carelessness, into whatever lies before
him. No art can adequately portray such scenes—the
infinite beauty of faith, and love, and singleness of heart,
has never yet been cut in marble, or placed upon canvass,
or described in words.
Lucia sat with the old woman until the long hours of
the night deepened and glided towards midnight: then
she rose and assisted Aunt Phillis, who tottered feebly, to
her bed: and then, with an affectionate good night, the
child sought her own poor chamber, and was soon buried
in sleep; the prayer she murmured, as her weary eyelids
closed, still on her lips—still on her lips, but elsewhere
heard and answered!
-- 271 -- p506-278
CHAPTER XXII. HOW AN UNKNOWN FRIEND SENT LUCIA A DRESS
[figure description] Page 271.[end figure description]
Lucia was just opening her door to go down, on the
next morning, when suddenly she heard a rapid step upon
the stairway, and with one bound the feet which caused
this noise reached her door, and a quick hand burst it
open.
Lucia found herself face to face with Wide-Awake.
Wide-Awake was triumphant, resplendent, full of pride
and happiness. He carried in his hand a bundle, which
he threw from him immediately upon Lucia's bed.
“There it is!” cried Wide-Awake; “it 's my opinion
that there 's magic in the world; and if there ain't, there 's
what's jest as good—kind people!”
And having disburdened himself of this observation,
Wide-Awake took both of Lucia's hands in his, and
gazed into her face with a singular mixture of mirth and
bashfulness, of ease and awkwardness.
It seemed suddenly to occur to him, however, that this
proceeding was ambiguous—the position he had assumed
presumptuous—and, in order to remove any appearance
of strangeness, he pressed the hands he held, and said:
“I say, Lucia—how d'ye do?”
“I am very well, Sam,” said Lucia, with the sad,
sweet smile which characterized her; “what is that bundle?
You quite frightened me.”
“Frightened you?”
“You came in so suddenly, you know,” said Lucia.
-- 272 --
[figure description] Page 272.[end figure description]
“So I did! The fact is, I 'm a fool and a villain,
Lucia, and nothing else.”
“Oh! how can you say such—”
“Cause it 's true. Here I am, frightenin' a young'
ooman who 's a friend—you 're my friend, ain't you,
Lucia?” said Wide-Awake, with a bashful look.
“Oh, yes—indeed, I—like you so much, for your kindness—
and goodness.”
There was quite as much bashfulness in Lucia's voice
as in Wide-Awake's; and it was not difficult to see that
the affection of the boy was returned by the child.
“Goodness!” cried Wide-Awake, “don't say it no
more! Don't, Lucia! Oh, my eyes!—leastways,” added
Wide-Awake, “that 's not the sort o' talk for you, an' so
I take it back! What a low fellow I am, Lucia!”
And Wide-Awake stood in horror at his own character.
“Don't say nothin! he added. “I am! and you can't
make me b'lieve I ain't. But I'm gittin' `refined,' as I
hear the swells say. Think o' Wide-Awake gittin' refined—
and all along of you!”
The idea seemed to tickle Wide-Awake, and he laughed
so merrily that Lucia almost laughed too.
“Here 's a fool for you!” continued Wide-Awake.
“Here I am a talkin' 'bout myself, an' there 's that
bundle—”
“Oh, what is it?”
“It 's a dress—look there!”
And Wide-Awake tore open the parcel, into which he
had already peeped, in his quality of friend—perhaps to
convince himself that it contained no infernal machine,
-- 273 --
[figure description] Page 273.[end figure description]
directed by some rival of the peerless Lucia against that
lady's life.
“It's a warm, nice frock,” he said, “just look!”
Lucia opened the bundle and took out just what Wide-Awake
described—a warm, nice frock.
“Oh, me!” she said, “there's some mistake! where did
you get it, Sam?”
“It was giv' into my hands jest now” said Wide-Awake,
“there at the bottom of the stairs.”
“At the door?”
“Yes. I was comin' to see you, Lucia, sayin' to myself,
I was a fool to stay away so long—most two days—
because the people would be thinkin'—well, never mind,
that ain't no matter,” Wide-Awake said, breaking off, “I
was comin' to see you, an' when I got to the bottom of
the steps, I see a black fellow lookin' round as if he
couldn't see no perfessional sign, and didn't know where
anybody lived. `Now, uncle,' says I, `don't be hurtin'
of your eyes; but if you'r lookin, for lawyer Wide-Awake,
say so, an' no more.' `I ain't,' he says, `I'm
lookin' for a little gal o' name o' Lucia.' When I heard
that, I told him I was goin' up, and what did he want.
He said this bundle was for you, an' he was not to say
who sent it—an' I jerked it out of his hand, an' brought
it up, an' peeped into it, an' it's such a warm, nice
dress—hoora!”
And Wide-Awake took the frock, and opened it and
gazed at it with pride and delight.
“Who could have sent it!” said Lucia, with a look of
deepest surprise, “who could have thought of me?”
-- 274 --
[figure description] Page 274.[end figure description]
Wide-Awake seemed to consider the circumstance
much less extraordinary than it appeared to Lucia.
Suddenly he uttered an exclamation, and caught, as it
fell, a note which was wrapped in one of the folds.
“Here's the owner's name—here it is! He gives it
to you!”
And Wide-Awake tore open the note, and with inborn
politeness held it without looking at it, toward Lucia.
The child took it, and read:
“For the child, Lucia, from one who cares nothing for
her, asks no gratitude, and would receive no thanks.”
Lucia's hand sank down, and she looked at Wide-Awake
with so much astonishment and bewildering surprise, that
he held out his hand for the letter; and took it and
read it.
“It's my opinion,” he said, at length, “that this here
dress has fallen down from the skies!”
“Oh! some good person has given it to me.”
“I don't know that,” said Wide-Awake, sapiently, “I
believe its magic!”
And he read the letter again, but could, of course,
make nothing of it. The boy and girl could speak of
nothing else for an hour; and yet, at the end of that
time, they were quite as far from the solution of the
mystery as ever.
“Oh!” Lucia cried, suddenly, “could it have been!—
could it—!”
“Who, Lucia!”
“The old doctor who comes to see Ellie's uncle.”
“Who? Doctor Fossyl!”
-- 275 --
[figure description] Page 275.[end figure description]
“Yes.”
Wide-Awake laughed in derision.
“That man's a perfect tiger, he is,” said the boy, “he
screws out every cent he can get, and would see you
freeze before he'd open his hand to help you. What
could 'a' made you think of him, Lucia?”
“I thought—when Ellie—that is, I think he heard
Ellie offer me her dress—a new one—he was at the
door—and he might have heard Ellie say how thin my
old one was—oh yes! I think it was Doctor Fossyl! I
know it is!”
Lucia uttered these words with an accent of such deep
conviction, that Wide-Awake found himself staggered.
“Well,” he said, “nothin's impossible, I've heard
people say, and Doctor Fossyl may be the man! But if
he is, I'll go and git down on my knees and ask his
pardon for my treatin' him so badly!”
Wide-Awake seemed to be seized with the deepest
contrition, as he uttered these words, and hung his head.
“Treating him badly?” asked Lucia, “you treat
Doctor Fossyl badly?”
“Yes, Lucia! don't consider me a villain! I done so
at him,” and Wide-Awake extended his finger over his
left shoulder, “and told him to take care of himself an'
not bile!”
The recollection of this enormity seemed to plunge
Wide-Awake into the depths of remorse.
“Never mind,” said Lucia, “that was only a jest, and
if he is so good and sent me this frock, he will not think
badly of you for such a thing.”
-- 276 --
[figure description] Page 276.[end figure description]
“I'll go and beg his pardon, and tell him after all his
goodness to you, Lucia—”
“Oh! no, no!” said Lucia, “you know the letter says
he wants no thanks, and maybe you had better not. How
good it was in him! My old dress is nearly gone!”
And Lucia gazed simply at her thin and worn old
frock.
This observation made Wide-Awake perfectly miserable;
and with this misery was mingled the jealousy he
felt, at seeing another relieve the suffering of his Lucia,
while he was unable.
“Oh, me! why ain't I rich!” he said.
“Rich! Sam?”
“Oh, yes! I can't do nothin' for you.”
Lucia smiled, and looking at the honest face with her
kind and tender eyes, said:
“Maybe it's better you are not rich, Sam; you would
have other things to think of, and we wouldn't be such
friends.”
“Wouldn't be! Oh, my eyes! Lucia! I'd come in a
chariot an' carry you away—and—and—and—leastways I
would ask you—you will soon be grown, you know—”
And overwhelmed with agitation at this near approach
to an avowal of his love and hopes, poor Wide-Awake's
countenance was covered with crimson, and his eyes fell
to the ground.
Lucia understood his meaning, and a faint color came
into her cheeks, and she was silent. She soon regained
her self-possession, however, and said softly and sadly:
“It is a great comfort to have such a kind good friend;
-- 277 -- p506-284
[figure description] Page 277.[end figure description]
but don't talk so, Sam. You are so kind—but you must
not think I want anything—I'm very well off now—I
work for Aunt Phillis, and you must not spend any of
your money as you have been doing for me.”
Lucia then folded up the dress, and laid it away; and
recalled to her duties by the name of Aunt Phillis, opened
the door, and, accompanied by Wide-Awake, went down.
As to Wide-Awake, his feelings seemed to choke him,
for he uttered not a single word; and only gazed at Lucia
with a sort of vague wonder, as if she was a curious and
astonishing problem which he could not solve. His
glances took in all the details of her face and figure—the
dark liquid eyes—the raven hair—the sad, innocent lips:—
lastly they fell upon her thin and flimsy dress, through
which, as they descended, the freezing wind cut pitilessly,
into the shivering person. This last spectacle brought a
groan from Wide-Awake; and all he could do was to
wring Lucia's hand, and groan again, after which he departed,
with his head over his right shoulder, into the
bleak distance.
CHAPTER XXIII. WHAT BETTER EPITAPH!
Lucia stood for a moment gazing after him; and
something like a sigh issued from her parted lips. She
suppressed the feeling, however, which produced this exhibition
of emotion, and descended into Aunt Philis' cellar.
-- 278 --
[figure description] Page 278.[end figure description]
Aunt Phillis had taken in that one dim night a long
stride toward the land she was rapidly approaching. She
seemed now lying in her bed, to pass away in thought
from the real world around her into the world of memory,
or forward to that brighter universe where there is no
death, or suffering, or sighing.
“Peace to me, my chile, I'm goin' over Jordan,” said
Aunt Phillis, feebly, as she handed back the cup from
which she had drank a little tea; “I see a vision in the
night, and I'm a-goin'.”
“Oh, Aunt Phillis,” said the child, “You distress me
so by talking in that way! You are only a little sick,
and you'll soon be well.”
Oh, no, I won't my chile! Oh, no, I won't—don't think
I will! De Lord is bin a-callin' me, and I'm a-goin!”
After uttering these words, the old woman clasped her
hands outside of the counterpane, and closing her eyes,
seemed to be praying.
“Read me a little o' the good book, my chile,” she
said, at length,” 'pears to me it sounds like music—oh,
yes! like de blessed music ob de skies—oh, yes! read—'
bout it, chile!”
And the old woman closed her eyes, and sank back,
murmuring a prayer.
The child, with a sort of awe, opened the Bible, and
wiping away the tears which obscured her eyes, and made
the words swim before her, commenced reading those
words, in which the beloved disciple closes up his sublime
revelation.
“And he showed me a pure river of water of life, clear
-- 279 --
[figure description] Page 279.[end figure description]
is crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God, and of
the Lamb. In the midst of the street of it, and on either
side of the river, was there the tree of life, which bare
twelve manner of fruits, and yielded her fruit every
month; and the leaves of the tree were for the healing of
the nations.”
Aunt Phillis murmured to herself in a low voice, “For
the healing of the nations! Oh, yes! for the healing of
the nations, black an' white!”
The child continued in a low voice.
“And there shall be no more curse; but the throne of
God and of the Lamb shall be in it; and his servants
shall serve him: and they shall see his face, and his name
shall be in their foreheads. And there shall be no night
there: and they need no candle neither light of the sun,
for the Lord God giveth them light; and they shall reign
forever and ever.”
The old woman repeated the last words in a low
tone, and sighed. The child read on, and came to the
words:
“And behold I come quickly, and my reward is with
me to give every man according as his work shall be. I
am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end, the
first and the last.”
“Oh, yes, he's comin' quickly to me,” murmured Aunt
Phillis: “I can hear him comin' quickly—oh, my God!
I see him comin' like the mornin' in the sky!”
“I am the root and the offspring of David, and the
bright and morning star,” read the child; “and the
Spirit and the bride say come. And let him that heareth
-- 280 --
[figure description] Page 280.[end figure description]
say come—and let him that is athirst come, and whosoever
will, let him take the water of life, freely.”
These words seemed to cause the feeble old soul a
pleasure and content too deep for words: and when the
child read, “He which testifieth these things saith, surely
I come quickly, Amen. Even so come, Lord Jesus,”
the weak lips repeated the words in a murmur, and the
thin hands were clasped in deep content and hope.
All that day the old woman lay in a sort of ecstacy,
her thoughts busy with the past and the future. Again
her memory seemed to grow preternaturally vivid, and
from the broken words she uttered, she seemed to be
again thrown actually back to the far past, and to live it
over again, with all its emotions, pleasant or bitter, glad
or sorrowful:—and then all these reveries would melt and
fade, and surging forward like a tide, which has retreated
only to collect its strength, the heart and soul, and being
of the dying woman poured upon those far mysterious
shores, wrapped for us in an impervious mist, but dimly
seen by those who are passing slowly from the present to
the future.
Who knows how far the eyes of the dying penetrate
into that hidden universe—or who can tell what visions
the soul, nearly divorced from matter, is capable of
beholding, even before the parting with its prison-house,
the body? Often upon the countenance of a dying child
may be seen an expression of intelligence most startling,
and the eyes will be full of a light which never illumined
them before. As often will a smile, brighter than anything
on earth, light up the little countenance, and
-- 281 --
[figure description] Page 281.[end figure description]
scarcely a tremor of the lip, a movement of the frame,
will interpose between those two mysteries, Life and
Death. It is not a sorrowful belief—the conviction that
the infant sinking thus, pulse after pulse, into the glory
of heaven, sees something of that glory as he passes from
the shadows of this world:—that before his eyes the
“pure lilies of eternal peace,” wave in the light of a new
universe, where the snapped earthly flowers will grow
again—that heaven opens before life has closed, and that
the lover of little children bends down, taking in his
arms the soul thus balanced on its wings, ready to take
its flight.
If the old dying woman saw not with the actual eye,
she still saw by faith. And this faith was perfect enough
to cover her face with a happiness which made Lucia
gaze wonderingly at her.
Lucia remained with her until a number of her friends
came; and then she went up to her room, and kneeled
down and prayed for her.
All that day Aunt Phillis' friends came and went with
the strange curiosity and interest which characterizes the
African mind, on such occasions. It soon came to be
known that sister Phillis was dying, and her children, who
lived all about the city, in different capacities, gathered
around her dying bed, and listened to her last words.
Just as the sun was setting, the old woman murmured
lowly, “Jesus, my Lord, come quickly,”—and then her
spirit took its flight; and a wail rose from the poor cellar,
which had in it something so wild and solemn, that the
-- 282 --
[figure description] Page 282.[end figure description]
careless passers by, stopped and looked down, and then
went on their way in silence.
Lucia lay on her bed and cried, until she was weak and
sick: thinking of the hundred kind things the old woman
had done for her—of the words of hope and comfort she
had uttered. Struck thus by another affliction, so soon
after the death of her father, the child's spirit sank within
her; and she sobbed and cried, and could only utter
broken words of prayer.
The night passed away, almost without slumber on her
part, and only toward morning could she snatch an hour
or two of slumber. No one can tell what a tempest of
thought and suffering raged in the child's heart, through
those long and weary hours. Her heart had begun to
twine its delicate tendrils around the affectionate old woman—
and, long deprived of a mother's care and love, the
child had found in the hearty goodness of Aunt Phillis,
that sympathy which she needed, and which nothing but
a child, or those who remember the feeling of their childhood,
will adequately realize. Now she was taken from
her, just when she was becoming a solace to the child;
and with her passed away also, that means of support—
of procuring daily bread—which Lucia knew not elsewhere
to seek.
But of this she did not think. Her whole heart was
full of weeping for her poor old friend: and when she
rose in the early morning, it seemed to her that the sunshine
had grown dark, the world colder and more weary,
that she was once more thrown alone and friendless into
-- 283 --
[figure description] Page 283.[end figure description]
the bleak, pitiless world, without a hope of happiness or
consolation.
She tried to read her Bible, but she had not learned to
surrender her whole heart and being at that altar, and the
tears in her eyes made the words swim. She closed the
book, and went mechanically to kindle her small fire—for
the room was bitter cold. She forgot that her last piece
of wood had been used—and gazing at the empty corner,
with a sort of dumb and vacant surprise, she went and lay
down on the bed again, and covered her head, and sobbed.
Hour after hour passed away, and the silence was broken
by no sound but the stifled sobs of the child. Ellie came
in once, but seeing Lucia sleeping, as she thought, went
softly out again.
About noon, a voice was heard from the cellar, where a
great concourse had gathered:—and the solemn tones of
this voice indicated that the speaker was praying. Lucia
rose and put back her hair, and went out on the stairway,
crying.
Leaning upon the railing, cold and solemn, Doctor
Fossyl listened to the prayer, and muttered to himself.
The speaker ended, and a hymn followed—one of those
simple hymns, which have scarcely any prescribed words,
but a fixed chorus, which all are acquainted with and sing:
“Come and will you go,
Will you go? will you go?
Come and will you go
Where pleasure never dies!”
The strain rang out—loud, solemn, and impressive—and
then it ceased: and the mourners seemed to be preparing
to follow the body to its long home.
-- 284 --
[figure description] Page 284.[end figure description]
One of the negro women came out and entered the door,
and stood looking on, as the concourse entered the carriages,
and moved on.
It moved on slowly, and turned into a side street, and
disappeared.
The woman covered her face with her hand, and seemed
to be crying. A cynical smile flitted across the face of
Doctor Fossyl, as he gazed, and descending the stairs, he
touched her shoulders, and said:
“Why are you crying?”
“For sister Phillis, bless de Lord!” said the woman,
“she done, gone.”
“Did you know her—have you lost anything by her
death?”
“Oh, no, sir; but I bin see heap of her, an' it makes
me sorry to be thinkin' of her. She come in my house—
she did—an' sot down to'ther day, an' I thought she
look 'sif she was a-goin'. But I say, `how well you is
a-lookin', sister Phillis;' but I didn't think so, only said
it like to make her easy. `No, I ain't a-lookin' well, says
she; `I ain't long for this worl', sister Jane,' says she. I
tole her not to be talkin' so—she'd soon be well, if she
stopped ironin' in the draught, with her door open, an'
she weak an' poorly. `No, I ain't goin' to git well,' says
she; `I know my time's a-comin', fast, an' I'm a-goin.
You won't b'lieve it till you see me on the coolin' board,'
says she, `I'm goin', fast.' I tole her, she was gittin'
down-hearted, but she said, she wasn't. `No, sister Jane,'
says she, `I ain't long for this worl'—I'm goin' over
Jordan, soon.' She ironed a shirt for me, but she got so
-- 285 --
[figure description] Page 285.[end figure description]
weak an' sick-like, I tole her she must stop—she wasn't
fittin' for no work—no, not at home. `I'm 'bleeged to
do my customer's clothes,' says she; an' after a little she
got up and went away. Soon after, she was took, an'
went to bed, and yesterday mornin' she knowed she was
a-goin' home. Her children wouldn't b'lieve 'cause she
talked sense—but she called 'em to her, an' shook hands
with 'em, an' tole 'em good-bye. `I'm good as gone,'
says she; `I'm goin' over Jordan,' bless de Lord.' Her
son jes' fell back, same like he was dead, an' she turned
round, and soon they found her dead. Poor Phillis,
gone!”
And the speaker covered her face, and began to cry
again. Then without waiting further she went away—
returning to her work, which had prevented her from
following her friend.
Doctor Fossyl looked after her for a moment—gazed
coldly at Lucia, who stood crying on the steps—and then
pushing by the child, went hastily to the apartment of Joe
Lacklitter.
Lucia sat down upon the steps, and covered her face,
and sobbing as if her heart would break, uttered the words
“Aunt Phillis! Oh, Aunt Phillis! why, why, can't I go
with you! Why can't I go with you!”
What better epitaph.
-- 286 -- p506-293
CHAPTER XXIV. IN THE ARENA: WITH SKETCHES OF THE GLADIATORS.
[figure description] Page 286.[end figure description]
Let us now pass from these scenes on which our history
has essayed to delineate faintly something of the life
which forms the annals of the poor, to those other scenes
and personages of the narrative which we have not been
able to attend to, busy as we were in tracing the emotions
and relating the adventures of the child Lucia, and her
friends, Wide-Awake and Ellie.
The difficulty in a narrative like the history we have
made the attempt to write, is not the detail of the particular
scenes, or the representation of those characteristic
traits which make a picture of some value. The connection
of the incidents is the great task. The writer finds
no difficulty in embracing at a glance the personages, the
incidents, and the end to which the whole group moves:—
but there is another element of the problem which must
never be lost sight of—and that is the reader. For the
reader, however intelligent and sympathizing, there must
always be a more or less literal explanation; for careless,
indifferent, and unsympathizing readers there must be
more—a demonstration. If the links of the history are
not forged completely and wrapped up in flowers, all at a
single blow, these latter say that it is awkward, hastily
composed, a bad work of art;—if anything is left to the
imagination, it is obscure;—if everything is explained, and
dwelt upon, and turned in every light—then it is tedious.
-- --
[figure description] Page 287.[end figure description]
There never has been a writer whose greatest bugbear
was not an unsympathizing reader.
This is the explanation of our fear, in passing from a
series of scenes and characters, to another wholly different:—
and we can only ask the reader to follow us, convinced
as we are, that in the end the connection of every
page of the narrative will be conclusively shown.
We return to Mr. Incledon and his fortunes.
Since the morning when, in the presence of Ellie, this
gentleman and his cousin held that singular conversation,
so filled with coldness and irritation upon the one part,
and so calm and self-possessed upon the other—a hundred
things had happened, which had still further tended to
place in an attitude of hostility these two personages, who
sustained toward each other such singular relations.
Miss Incledon had spoken truly in charging her cousin
with an affection for herself, amounting to a warmer sentiment
than fraternal regard. Placed under his care by her
father—thrown with him at almost every hour of the day—
he had, indeed, dreamed for a time that she could make
him happy as his wife; and he had shown her that she
was more to him than any other woman. Beautiful, winning,
possessed of those traits of mind which enable some
women to throw themselves at a moment's warning into
any mould, to assume any character, Miss Incledon had
easily convinced her cousin that the sentiment he felt for
herself was not more than she experienced for him; and
this had been the position of things, when one evening, at
a ball, Miss Incledon made the acquaintance of Mr.
Fantish.
-- 288 --
[figure description] Page 288.[end figure description]
There must be a magnetic sympathy between persons
of a like mould of character, and although we do not
mean to intimate that the characters of Miss Incledon and
Mr. Fantish were similar, yet they had no sooner met
than they were mutually struck with each other, and had
thus commenced an acquaintance, whose further progress
quite drove from the lady's heart any lingering sentiment
of dubious regard she might have had for her cousin.
Ambitious, and avid of all that enters into the daily life
of a professed votary of fashion, Miss Incledon saw in
Mr. Fantish a complete embodiment of what she worshipped;
and learning speedily that his father was a man
of large wealth, and he himself by no means without fortune
of his own, she had assiduously addressed herself to
the task of winning his admiration—and so of becoming
his wife.
It would be too much, to say that Miss Incledon loved
Mr. Fantish. She was scarcely capable of any sentiment
so exalted and pure as genuine love: and the miserable
idol she had erected for her worship—Fashion, first, last
and always—had corrupted, slowly but surely, any freshness
of heart which she retained. To become the wife of
a man who was regarded as the very light of fashion in
its brightest and most glaring form—to be the mistress of
a fine establishment, and drink to satiety of that intoxicating
draught which bubbles up in the heated atmosphere
of balls, and festivals, and splendid entertainments—this
was Miss Incledon's ambition; and the steps by which
she thought she could arrive at such a consummation were
-- 289 --
[figure description] Page 289.[end figure description]
those to be taken to the altar, with her hand in the delicate
kid glove of Mr. Fantish.
The feelings of the gentleman, upon whose hand this
adroit attack was destined to be made, may be described
quite as briefly. Mr. Fantish liked what he was accustomed
to style a “splendid woman”—that is to say a
woman whose physical development was admirable, and
whose society enabled him to kill a portion of his time to
his satisfaction. Mr. Fantish did not acknowledge the
presence of character, good or bad, in women: they were
pleasant figures, more or less well dressed, to wile away
an hour with; and when he met a figure, to carry out the
illustration, more than commonly imposing and well decorated,
he admired it with perfect sincerity and honesty.
He was in the habit of saying that women reminded him
of leopards, such as he had seen in menageries; and he
showed the analogy between them, by declaring that both
were handsome, had sharp claws, and obeyed only those
whom they feared. You felt a desire to caress both, he
would add—to pass the hand over the beautiful hair of
the one, or the velvet fur of the other—and if a man had
the nerve to indulge in these dangerous amusements, he
would add, then he was a very lucky fellow, and deserved
to be envied. These opinions were no secrets from Mr.
Fantish's friends, and, indeed, the expression of such
views contributed in no slight degree to the amusement
which his acquaintances derived from their association
with him. There was another species of conversation
very popular in the select circle of this gentleman's friends,
which we forbear from touching upon. We may however
-- 290 --
[figure description] Page 290.[end figure description]
say, that it dealt in a philosophy not favorable to the
strength of female character; and found its most frequent
illustrations in quotations from the works of my Lord
Byron.
When Mr. Fantish made Miss Incledon's acquaintance,
he immediately applied the leopard philosophy, and found
the result eminently satisfactory. He had not seen such
a “splendid woman” for a long time—and indeed the
lady's brilliant complexion, bright eyes, and coral lips,
fresh from the healthful airs of the country, easily gave
her the precedence of the great majority of town beauties,
painfully reduced in “good looks” by the season, ending
far in the spring. Mr. Fantish had admired Miss
Incledon quite honestly, and had paid her many compliments,
which she had heard of course, and was perfectly
sincere when he said that she was much the finest woman
he had seen for years. When a man has this opinion of a
woman and the woman wishes him to have a still better
opinion, it is needless to say that she generally finds means
to give him an opportunity. It soon happened that Miss
Incledon was “at home” to nobody but a gentleman
who drove the most splendid pair of horses in the city—
and who descended daily almost from his vehicle at her
door.
When our history opened, this had been for some time
the state of affairs between Miss Incledon and her admirer—
though not entirely this. Mr. Fantish was not a
refined man—his taste was not very fastidious—but he
had seen a great deal of good society, knew by heart
everything connected with the “properties of things,”
-- 291 --
[figure description] Page 291.[end figure description]
and really could not, no! he could not stand—he told his
friends—the desperate affection of Miss Incledon. He
had known many women—many of them had acted most
extravagantly, for instance, that little danseuse who was
distracted about him—but really a more desperate attack
than that of Miss Incledon, he never had been yet subjected
to. He had heard, he said, of unhappy lovers,
weeping and sighing, and lamenting the obduracy of their
lady-loves, but his was an opposite fate. He was destined
to be smothered with embraces—if he would allow
it—to be stifled with kisses—if he did not resist: his fate,
in a word, was to be wooed and won by a woman, and he
really did not know where all this would end. And then
a good deal of laughter would ensue, and Mr. Fantish
would be regarded as a persecuted saint, and Miss Incledon
as a young lady who wished to throw herself into the
arms of a man who repulsed her.
The reader will now be able to understand the position
which Mr. Incledon's cousin had been made to assume, by
these base and ignoble accusations, which the thoroughly
corrupt man of the world, uttered in the most public
places. When we have briefly spoken of the character
of Mr. Incledon, which as yet we have barely touched
upon, the rebound of these degrading jests upon that
gentleman, will be also comprehended in all its terrible
force.
The son of a country gentleman of great strength of
character and chivalric feeling, Ralph Incledon, had early
developed a character, which made many persons say he
was destined to live over again the life of his grandfather,
-- 292 --
[figure description] Page 292.[end figure description]
the most violent and dangerous man of his time in all the
country side. He seemed to inherit a passion for everything
in which an enormous and superabundant vitality
and energy could find vent. A passionate hunter, he
would ride his horse nearly to death after a fox, or remain
out whole days and nights, deer hunting—and thus he
passed his boyhood, in exercises which developed his
frame into a bundle of steel tissues, and his natural
energy into a devouring passion for excitement.
From the fields and forests he passed to college, where,
in the midst of a new life and new associates, he became
noted for precisely the same animal traits which had
brought forth the hostile predictions of the wiseacres of
his native county. He could ride more vicious horses,
swim more turbid streams, and fence with more dangerous
adversaries, even after a few lessons, than any other young
man in the place. He had struck the fencing master himself
after his fourth lesson: and the plain explanation of
all this was that strength which he had trained so assiduously,
and the restless energy of his temperament, which
must eternally be struggling with something, as though
this were the only condition upon which it rested from
tearing its master. To this character, he added the most
extreme sensitiveness and pride. Of powerful will with a
resolution wholly indomitable, he would tremble at a jest
directed at his honor, and risk his life to punish it. He
had more than once engaged in affrays of the bloodiest
description, against great odds, and nothing but a blind
chance, it seemed to him, had preserved him from the
bullet or the knife. This sensitiveness amounted almost
-- 293 --
[figure description] Page 293.[end figure description]
to a mania; and it seemed nearly a miracle that a man so
ready to resent the least supposed slight, had not long
ago fallen in some desperate encounter. His great personal
strength, and resolution were so well known, however,
that he had been avoided by his companions: and
it was the conviction of this fact which made him one day
set down and reflect coolly upon his own character, and
the direction in which it was leading him. By one of
those sudden revulsions which not seldom happen to men
of powerful organization, he passed from one extreme to
the other, and forswearing all his former habits applied
himself night and day to the mastery of all the fields of
thought which extended themselves before him, inviting
him to come and take possession. Feeling an inborn and
extreme hatred of mathematics, he attacked that first;
and then passed to the languages and belles letters. In
all, his great energy carried him forward over difficulties
which his previous neglect of study had rendered a thousand
times more repulsive. Persisting in his resolution, he
went on in the course he had marked out for himself, and
before the session ended, he had acquired a devouring
passion for the most intense study. His vigorous and
close mind found its true element in those conflicts which
go on from generation to generation among the forces of
adverse philosophies and systems; and, grappling now
with the most acute dialecticians, his mind seemed to live
its normal life so to speak, of sustained and powerful
action.
Returning home with this change in his character, he
went on in spite of the astonishment of his associates—
-- 294 --
[figure description] Page 294.[end figure description]
turning his attention to the profoundest analysis of the
strongest thinkers, on all the great questions of human
concern—a contest in which he spent three years. At the
end of that time he had become a free-thinker—for his
studies latterly were among the dry dogmas of conflicting
theological systems. In this state of mind, he threw
aside his tomes, went to that greatest fruit and treasure
of the Reformation, an open Bible; and thenceforth made
it his study, not his reading only—his intense, exhausting
single study. For a year, he scarcely took another volume
in his hand; and the result of this, as we believe will always
be the result, was a profound conviction of the eternal
truth of Christianity. With this logical conviction came
that other mystery, which would be like the shadow to
the substance, were it not the substance itself, and the
logical conviction but the shadow. He united himself to
the church, and then this man's life was forever changed.
From that time he had but one aim in life—to subdue his
passions; to go through an immense conflict, and finally
to apply himself to some work which should seem to him
worthy of a faith and energy such as he felt himself possessed
of.
He determined to go from the scenes which had witnessed
so many outbursts of passion; and to remain for a
while among the crowds which people streets. He would
apply himself during this time to some study—law, or any
thing he determined—and all this he did. His father
had put his cousin under his charge, and said to him—
“Ralph, watch over her as a brother,”—and this he had
done, passing his days thus in study, observation, and the
-- 295 --
[figure description] Page 295.[end figure description]
half-formed shadow of love. He had met Mr. Sansoucy
upon his arrival—they were old friends, in the country;
and Mr. Fantish, too, was no stranger. He had known
that gentleman at college.
This then, was the man to whom suddenly came the
vague, mocking rumor, he scarcely knew whence, that the
young girl over whose welfare he had promised to watch,
had become the jest of society, the subject of gossip,
nay, of positive calumny, by the base agency of a man
of his acquaintance. The entrance of the very thought
into his mind, caused a crimson flush to come over his
countenance—and his eyes flashed. He rose to his full
height, and cast downwards, as though towards this man,
a glance of disdainful incredulity. Then this expression
passed, and he grew deadly pale.
The words he had heard struck him doubly:—in his
pride, and his love. Dishonor! Could actual dishonor
ever approach him, and from such a source as this man
whom he well knew? For a time he gave way to his fury,
and broke everything which stood in his way, as he paced
his room; then he sat down, and pondered, and grew calm,
and prayed; and from that moment held such a curb upon
himself as few men have ever been able to do.
We have seen how, even in his interview with Miss
Incledon, he spoke with the utmost calmness — and
again, how, at the ball, only a shadow and a contraction
of his brows had indicated the existence of the slumbering
volcano of passion beneath.
Since the ball, some scenes of which we touched upon,
the reports of Mr. Fantish's speeches, and the jests they
-- 296 -- p506-303
[figure description] Page 296.[end figure description]
produced, had been more and more terribly trying to
Mr. Incledon's pride:—and it is just at this time, that we
again resume the thread, which we lost sight of for a time,
in the consideration of those things which befel Aunt
Phillis, Lucia, and their friends.
CHAPTER XXV. THE OPERA OF DON GIOVANNI.
Sitting in his room at midnight, Mr. Incledon leaned
back in his chair, and allowing the law volume he had
been studying to fall upon the floor, gave himself up to
the flood of thought, which had been distracting his attention
for hours.
It was seldom that he yielded in this way; and one of
his rules was to repel any such thoughts, and bend his
mind down to the writer he was studying. But the match
which his brain had set fire to burnt slowly until it reached
the train of inflammable thought, and then it ignited, and
the dead speaker whom he had been listening to, was no
longer heard—the present claimed the student's sole
attention.
For a moment he remained silent, his brows curved into
a frown; his mouth full of melancholy and menace, his
eye lowering and dark.
Chancing to raise his eyes to the mirror over his mantel-piece,
their expression attracted his attention; and with a
-- 297 --
[figure description] Page 297.[end figure description]
sigh, the curve of the lips relaxed—the brow became
smooth again, and the eyes grew calm.
“Well, well,” he said, “it has come to this at last.
Force against force, body to body, the only difference
being that one of the combatants is fully armed, the other
naked and deprived of every weapon. Of every weapon?
No! how weak my faith! There is a strength in my
weakness, a power in my disarmed condition which makes
me stronger than any earthly adversary.”
He paused, and remained for some time silent: his
countenance gradually growing more and more calm and
collected.
“What a singular thing,” he said, at length, “that I
should thus refuse the weapon placed in my hand,—that
I should disarm myself—and draw back from the contest
to which I am defied. If I chose, I might easily delude
myself into the belief that I was the proper instrument to
punish this crime—and were I to kill the criminal, society
would hail me with applause, as one who had legitimately
acted in defence of a most sacred thing—my honor, and
my cousin's honor. But this poor thing, the world's applause!
this froth upon the tide of human life, which so
many persons grasp at—God be thanked, I do not look to
it in shaping my own acts. I look higher! Oh, yes, infinitely
higher!—even to thee, O, my God!” he murmured,
solemnly, “to thee alone. In thy hands are the issues of
life and death—thou judgest, I do not—thou claimest vengeance
as the prerogative of thy divinity! If the stars of
heaven in their courses fought against Sisera, I can trust to
that heavenly aid to-day! Yes, yes! all these poor passions
-- 298 --
[figure description] Page 298.[end figure description]
of wrath and jealousy and rage soon pass, and fade, and
God alone remains—the creature is alone with his Creator—
above all earthly things—above father and mother, children
and native land—alone with God!”
And raising his eyes toward heaven, his looks seemed
to penetrate into the sublime empyrean, which stretches
clear and calm far up above the mists and clouds, and
agitation of the earthly atmosphere beneath.
“It may be a hard trial,” he murmured, gazing again
into the fire: “but I think I am equal to it—I am not so
weak and passionate as I was—and look more and more
to duty. My duty is now plain, and I will perform it.”
As he spoke, a step resounded on the stairway, and in
a few minutes the door opened, giving entrance to our
friend, Mr. Sansoucy.
“Ah, Ralph! Ralph! what a student you are!” said
Sansoucy, with his clear, good-humored voice. “You
really ought to take some recreation, and not new yourself
up thus—though, faith! you may have been abroad,
and returned, considering the hour.”
With these words Sansoucy shook his friend by the
hand, and sitting down, threw back his overcoat, and
stretched himself.
Having performed this ceremony, he rose, took a cigar
from the mantel piece, and commenced smoking with the
air of a man who has a long evening before him until
bed-time, and is determined to take his leisure. The
explanation of this circumstance was that in right of his
membership of the editorial army, Mr. Sansoucy was
eccentric in his hours, and, indeed, preferred the shades
-- 299 --
[figure description] Page 299.[end figure description]
of night for study, toil, or friendly interchange of
thoughts. “Proof” is an enemy which keeps terribly
late hours, is partial to night forays, and must never find
the sentinel asleep:—perhaps his frequent contact with
this adverse force at late hours, had given Mr. Sansoucy
his bad talent of retiring and rising late.
To-night, however, he had a perfectly valid excuse for
calling on a friend toward the hour of one:—he had been
to the opera, came in, in passing, and he informed Mr.
Incledon of the fact.
“I, on the contrary, have been studying,” said Mr.
Incledon; “less amusing, but more profitable.”
“I deny that,” said Sansoucy, laughing; “there is
much profit in good music—it refines the character.”
“Well—perhaps.”
“It elevates the spiritual and poetic portion of the
mind—”
“And never the sensuous?”
“Hum! as you have just said—`perhaps.”'
“There is no perhaps upon the subject, Ernest,” said
his friend; “there is an absolute fact which admits of
demonstration; and if the Grecian Lais, or the Roman
Messalina could stand there before us, and reply to my
interrogatories, I could soon persuade you that the lyrics
of Ionia, with her dames, intoxicated both these lands,
and ruined them. You are a philosopher, and I need not
therefore point you to old Burton.”
“I a philosopher! why, you are mistaken.”
“Well, I will not argue that subject with you. What
was the opera?”
-- 300 --
[figure description] Page 300.[end figure description]
“Don Giovanni.”
“Oh—indeed? Well, I have seen it, and the music is
wonderful.”
“What a splendid dramatic conception Leporello is,
and his music.”
“What a scoundrel he is,” continued Sansoucy; “but
I never can refrain from laughing, when he enters singing
the glory of his master. What diabolical music! It
is the scapin of French comedy set to a tune! And when
he points to the roll of ladies' names in his hand—all of
whom have been in love with the Señor, his master, what
a soul of scoffing Mozart's music possesses—you begin
to feel convinced that dishonor, knavery, and that fraud
upon woman which is as miserable a thing, says some one,
as to cheat a child at cards—that all these things are
really amusing and admirable, and delightfully entertaining.
You really begin to admire the successful Don,
before whom no fortress stands—and when Leporello
sang his triumphant song, I saw old Doctor Fossyl
shaking with cynical delight—a terribly bad sign, and
unmistakeable.”
“Is this the music which you consider spiritual?”
“Faith! that isn't fair, Ralph!” said Sansoucy, with
the air of a man who is very badly used.
“What, Ernest?”
“Why to lead me thus into a free and friendly expression
of opinion upon the opera I have seen to-night, and
then to clamp down on me, like a steel trap, for some
chance word I uttered on the general topic! It's always
thus, however, with you logicians,” added Sansoucy,
-- 301 --
[figure description] Page 301.[end figure description]
smiling; “you can't converse, and allow a man to contradict
himself in silence. You must argue, forsooth!
and when you get the better of the argument, you are
satisfied, and triumph—without thinking of the thousand
agreeable things your argument has strangled! There it
is! deny that the portrait is your own.”
In spite of the great good humor of Mr. Sansoucy's
accent, a shadow seemed to have settled upon Mr. Incledon's
face, and he was silent.
At last he raised his head, and said:
Excuse me, Ernest, I am dull to-night. Who was at
the opera?”
“Oh, everybody.”
“Some names.”
“Faith, ask me some, and I will tell you.”
“Was my cousin there!”
“Miss Incledon?”
“Yes.”
“Certainly she was—with that delightful Mr. Fantish,
who really is the most disagreeable man in the world—
to me, at least.”
And Sansoucy smoked his cigar without looking at his
friend. A deeper shadow had settled upon his countenance
and he was silent.
“Miss Incledon looked beautiful,” continued Sansoucy,
gazing into the fire, “and I really could not wonder at
the attention she attracted. She was the centre of all
eyes.”
“Was she?” said Mr. Incledon, with a pallor which
-- 302 --
[figure description] Page 302.[end figure description]
made his eyes resemble two coals set in the face of a
spectre.
“Yes,” Sansoucy said, “and Mr. Fantish also was
quite a lion. He seemed to enjoy the opera, I think—in
fact, Zerlina's song was admirably done. Why, Ralph,”
said Sansoucy, turning round, “you are as white as a
sheet! Are you sick?”
“No—I felt badly—sitting so long here;—how did the
opera end—with the catastrophe, as usual?”
And having uttered these words with an affectation of
indifference, which would have deeply touched Sansoucy
if he had known all, Mr. Incledon leaned back, and
gradually grew calm, as his friend spoke.
“It ended admirably,” said Sansoucy. “The statue
of the commander came in duly; the Don went through
his `doom-stagger,' as I remember seeing it styled in some
high-flown critique, and it ended with the tableau of his
descent into hell—represented by red fire-light on a huge
cavern—of pasteboard.”
Having achieved this accurate description of the opera,
Sansoucy smoked again.
Incledon was silent for some time, and then said, with
perfect calmness:
“That is a scene capable of very effective management,
Ernest—what do you think of the strange conception of
the originator of the plot?”
“I think with you, that it is original and strange.”
“And the retribution?”
“Why, just, of course.”
-- 303 --
[figure description] Page 303.[end figure description]
“A singular idea in the author—was it not?—to make
a spirit instrumental in the punishment of this man.”
“Very.”
“If a man had punished him?”
“Why,” Sansoucy said, “it is plain the idea would be
greatly inferior to the present. There is more interest
felt by an audience in the appearance of a statue walking,
and a visible descent into hell, than in a common duel
with swords. Cut, thrust! cross over—thrust, cut! cross
back again! Beat tin swords together duly for fifteen
minutes, approach the foot-lights, fall in an attitude, and
there 's a stage death; very noisy, but scarcely as striking
as the divine retribution in the opera.”
“No, you are right!” said Incledon, “and now let us
leave the subject. Have you seen Aurelia, your `friend
of youth,' lately?”
“Have I seen her!” said Sansoucy, laughing and sighing;
“I think I have.”
“Frequently?”
“Every day.”
“Recalling old times?”
“No; they seem to be forgotten.”
And Mr. Sansoucy sighed again.
“The fact is, Ralph,” he said, at length, “I am afraid
I was mistaken in Aurelia, and that I knelt to a goddess
of my own imagination. I thought she was tender and
soft, and she 's a very ball of fire; her wit corruscates like
lightning, and generally leaves me dazzled, if not struck—
moon-struck would probably be the better word,” added
Mr. Sansoucy, smiling, and rising, “and I foresee that
-- 304 --
[figure description] Page 304.[end figure description]
the picture will come down from my mantel-piece, or remain
there as a veritable `fancy sketch!”'
Having uttered these melancholy words, Mr. Sansoucy
threw away the end of his cigar, and wrapped his coat
around him.
“You are not going?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Shall I see you soon again?”
“Perhaps to-morrow—I 'll come and whisper my grievances
to your friendly ears. I don't conceal from you
that I am dreadfully jealous of a gentleman called Heartsease,
who escorted Miss Ashton to the opera to-night.
Aurelia attracted general admiration—but I am bound to
say, was not gazed at as attentively as Miss Incledon.”
With these words, and a friendly good-night, Sansoucy
departed, smiling.
How often do a man's friends torture him, without
dreaming of the effect produced by their words, uttered
so carelessly, and in such deep ignorance of the tender
spots they pierce like barbed arrows!
-- 305 -- p506-312
CHAPTER XXVI. HOW MR. INCLEDON CALLED ON MR. FANTISH, AND WHAT PASSED.
[figure description] Page 305.[end figure description]
At ten o'clock on the following morning, Mr. Incledon
presented himself at the door of Mr. Fantish's residence,
and giving his card to the servant, demanded speech of
his master.
His master had just sent for his carriage, the servant
said—indeed the open vehicle, with its fiery horses, drew
up as he uttered these words—but he would take up the
card.
Mr. Incledon was shown into an elegant sitting room,
where Mr. Fantish was accustomed to receive his friends,
at all hours of the night and day, and ten minutes after
his entrance Mr. Fantish appeared, accompanied by Captain
Tarnish, whose waistcoat, watch chain, cane, and
mustache were in their full splendor.
Mr. Fantish was elegantly dressed, and smoothed carelessly
his glossy hat, as he bowed superciliously to Mr.
Incledon.
“Good morning, sir,” said that gentleman, rising and
bowing with great calmness, “can you give me a few moments
of your time?”
“Yes, sir; though I am just upon the point of going
out.”
“Alone, sir, I should have said.”
“I have no secrets from my friend, Captain Tarnish.”
-- 306 --
[figure description] Page 306.[end figure description]
“My business is private.”
“You need not be afraid of me, sir,” interposed Captain
Tarnish, grandly, “I am secrecy itself.”
“I do not question it, sir,” Mr. Incledon said, “but I
repeat that my business is private.”
Captain Tarnish assumed his most imposing swagger,
and measured him who uttered these calm words, with a
look which he in vain endeavored to make dignified.
Probably the inspection did not satisfy him of the fact
that his opponent was impressible to menace; and he
turned on his heel and said:
“Well, I will go, sir.”
After which, Captain Tarnish curled his mustache,
hastily, and strolled into the passage—leaving the door
open behind him, no doubt by inadvertence.
Mr. Incledon rose and shut it, and then turned to Mr.
Fantish.
For a moment these two men, who concealed beneath
the stereotyped forms of etiquette, a mutual hostility,
gazed at each other in silence, and without motion. They
seemed to be measuring each other for the struggle—to
test their relative strength.
“Well, sir,” said Mr. Fantish, at length, “the motive
of your visit. It can scarcely be a friendly call.”
“Why not?” said Mr. Incledon, with that perfect
calmness of voice and look which denotes the man sure of
his position, and quite prepared.
“Because I am a very great reprobate, and—”
“I am not? Is that your meaning, sir?”
“Mr. Incledon!”
-- 307 --
[figure description] Page 307.[end figure description]
Mr. Incledon inclined his head in the manner of one
who listens.
“It is idle to affect, sir, that we occupy a position of
hostility toward each other!” said Mr. Fantish, with a
cold look, “I therefore explicitly request you to explain
your motive in calling upon me.”
“I will, certainly,” said Mr. Incledon. “Are you
aware, sir, that Miss Incledon, whom you visit, is my
cousin?”
“I believe so, sir.”
“Are you aware, sir, of the relations I sustain toward
her? Further relations I mean.”
“No, sir.”
“I will explain these. Miss Incledon was entrusted to
my care by her father, who requested me to watch over
her welfare, and I have done so faithfully, and have found
no subject for disquiet until lately. Lately, sir, I have,
at different times, heard of jests which you have uttered
at her expense. Whether these jests are true or not I do
not stop to inquire. The nature of these jests, however,
are quite unmistakeable, and they consist in the allegation,
upon your part, that she persecutes you with a fondness
which is disagreeable to you, and ridiculous. Am I
right, sir, in believing that you have uttered words to this
effect, in numerous places, and on different occasions?”
The look which accompanied Mr. Incledon's words
was so calm and cold, his whole manner so collected, and
measured, that Mr. Fantish, who would have received a
burst of anger, with one of laughter, for a moment lost
his self-possession, and colored with irritation.
-- 308 --
[figure description] Page 308.[end figure description]
“Your purpose, sir!” he said, at length, “in asking
this question! Your purpose, if it please you, sir!”
“That is not necessary, sir.”
“I consider it essentially necessary, sir!”
“Why?”
“Mr. Incledon, I am not to be catechised—I am not a
child to be brow-beaten!”
“I did not suppose such a thing, sir.”
“If you did not suppose it, you have acted as you would
have done with such a supposition, sir! and I ask again
what your purpose in holding this interview may be. If
you wish to throw me a defiance, sir—!”
“I may?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Thank you, Mr. Fantish, I do not purpose defying
you, though this will not seem to you to arise from a deficiency
of nerve for that ceremony. We were well acquainted
at college, I believe, and you can scarcely think
me lacking in the commonest and poorest courage—that
of the animal.”
“I think nothing, sir—I say only that this interview is
disagreeable.”
“I expected it would be, sir.”
“Your purpose, if you please, sir—for the last time.”
“Do not grow heated, sir: I see no reason why you
should, unless you are angry with me, for preserving my
temper. Your failure to deny the charges against you,
which I have repeated, convinces me, Mr. Fantish, that
you are not able to deny them, and that public rumor has
not falsified your words. That is the position in which
-- 309 --
[figure description] Page 309.[end figure description]
things now stand. You concede by your silence, that
these things are not the blind calumnies of a false public
speech, but actual utterances of your own. And now, sir,
I ask you—in what attitude are you placed by this, which
you do not even pretend to deny. I will tell you, sir,”
said Mr. Incledon, with cold dignity. “I will tell you, sir,
what you have accomplished by this jest. You have made
the name of a young girl the laughing-stock of the place in
which she lives, at least for the time: you have given to
men, like this person who just left us, the power of coupling
with the mention of a lady who bears the name of an
honorable and unspotted family, the rudest and most degrading
jests—you have placed yourself, in all the strength
of your manhood, with all the advantages of your knowledge
of the world, opposite and in hostility to a young
girl, who has left her home for the first time in her life,
and who will soon find her punishment in the titter, which
will greet her appearance in every ball-room. What chivalry,
sir! And it is no palliation of all this, if even what
you assert is true, that she has persecuted you with her
attention—nay, her fondness—that you find yourself in a
reversed position, followed by the woman. It is no excuse,
sir, that you have been treated thus;—none, absolutely
none. Nothing prevents you from retreating from this
foolish infatuation—there is absolutely nothing to excuse
your visits to that house, or what you have been pleased
to say about my cousin. No, sir! do not grind your teeth
and point to your duelling pistols—they are a poor plaster
for a young girl's reputation, wounded by your unmanly
jests, and I have much to say to you, sir. You know I
-- 310 --
[figure description] Page 310.[end figure description]
do not look upon your weapons as the arbiters of such a
question—I do not even utter these words as Miss Incledon's
cousin. I do not wish to have any portion of my
own feelings mixed with this—I ask nothing, resent nothing,
attack nobody—I only defend those I have said I would
defend!”
“Well, sir! well! defend them—I offer you the means!”
“Your pistols, sir?”—
“Yes! there!”
And seizing the box containing the weapons, Mr. Fantish
burst it open, and taking out one of the pistols
cocked it, and pointed Mr. Incledon to the other.
“I have said already,” continued that gentleman, calmly,
“that I do not recognize this tribunal.”
“You say, sir, forsooth, that you are displeased with
me!”
“Yes, sir,
“I am very naughty, a bad child,” said Mr. Fantish,
with a sneer—“I suppose I am to be whipped. This is
folly and insult, sir! There is your pistol,—take your
stand and I will give you now, the opportunity of chastising
me.”
“I will not take up that pistol,” said Mr. Incledon,
calmly, “I refuse for the third time.”
“Am I to take your life, sir?” said Mr. Fantish, pale
with rage, and raising his pistol.
“No, sir, there is no obligation upon you to perform so
foolish an action. Come, sir, let us throw aside these
puerile contentions—lower that weapon; such menaces,
sir, only frighten children. I think you would like to kill
-- 311 --
[figure description] Page 311.[end figure description]
me, Mr. Fantish, but you are not prepared to murder me—
your eyes reveal your indecision;—and if you are not prepared
to pull that trigger, which your forefinger does not
touch, your attitudinizing is a farce. You cannot suppose,
sir, that it will frighten me, for you know me, and are perfectly
well acquainted with the fact that fear is not an
element of my character.”
Mr. Fantish, with a cold sneer, lowered his pistol, as if
convinced of the folly of his action, and said:
“You talk very well, sir, and are very eloquent on the
subject of your courage!”
“No, sir,” said his opponent; “you are mistaken. I
do not boast of the power I possess of looking into the
muzzle of a pistol without trembling. I no more boast
of this faculty than I do of my height, or strength, or the
color of my complexion. It pleased God to give me
animal courage, and I affect nothing. It is you who are
affected in offering me a weapon which I cannot and will
not touch—a fact perfectly well known to you, and no
doubt, one that subjects me to your pity and contempt.
Well, well, sir! I can endure that dreadful infliction, and
am not affected by it, for I have a purpose quite beyond
all this. I did not come to insult you, sir—to taunt you—
to utter reproaches or complaints: I came to ask nothing
for myself, or for any other person—nothing, sir!”
An expression of astonishment, which he could not
repress, mingled with the white rage in Mr. Fantish's
countenance, and grasping the back of a chair until it
cracked, he said between his clenched teeth.
-- 312 --
[figure description] Page 312.[end figure description]
“Well, sir! having finished your moral discourse, perhaps
you will condescend to tell me what you really came for!”
Incledon looked at Mr. Fantish for a moment without
speaking, and such was the dignity and calmness of this
look, that it produced even some effect upon his adversary.
“Mr. Fantish,” he said, “do you remember our acquaintance
at college? I see you do,—well, sir, at that
time you had not become the reckless and selfish man that
you are now. You had vices, but they were mingled with
much that was such as all men might respect. You think
me guilty of an unpardonable piece of rudeness in speaking
to you with such brutal frankness—perhaps I should
not, but it is necessary for me to say this much, in order
that I may convey to you my meaning in what follows.
You left college at about the same period with myself—
you became a man of the world, I became a man of books.
I grew better, I am sure—you, sir, grew worse. It is
shocking, repulsive, insulting, for me to speak thus; your
face says, and you are angry enough to strike me down
with that chair you hold. But that is not to the purpose,
sir. I know that you possess undeniable courage, even
perfect recklessness, and a heart which is completely closed
to anything of remonstrance, which comes from a man
holding the position that I do in relation to yourself.
You despise me for regulating my actions by the law of
God, instead of by the prejudices of man—you consider
me a puritan, and a Pharisee; and any remonstrance that
I could utter, I repeat, would fall from you like water
from a rock—your only reply would be a scoff. That is
-- 313 --
[figure description] Page 313.[end figure description]
why I have spoken thus, sir—that is why I continue to
address you without ceremony or preamble. I repeat
then that you have deteriorated since you left college;
you have nearly lost all the purity that you once possessed;
but I do not believe that you have lost it entirely. I
address this small portion of good remaining in you, it is
true, but I address myself rather to your common-sense as
a man, when I ask you, if you are not performing an action,
in the matter we are talking of, which is unworthy of you
if a spark of honor remains in your composition; which is
dangerous to you if a particle of respect for the opinions
of men directs your actions. You go upon a dangerous
path, sir, when you array yourself against a girl, and that
public execration which visits such things sooner or later,
will strike you and overwhelm you. Oh, sir! you are
tired of your expression of wrath and menace, you begin
to curl your lips in derision of the very idea of your feeling
any regard for public opinion. That is an evidence
that you do not despise it, Mr. Fantish; as your new
emotion is an evidence that you do not know where to
attack me. I see, sir, that you scarcely know how to reply
to me; that you only await my shaping my few remaining
words into a request, to throw it from you with contempt.
I make no request, sir—I finish what I intended to say
when I entered here, by adding, that if you are not completely
lost to all sense of honor and chivalry, you will no
longer visit, or mention the name of a young lady whose
only defence will be an abandonment of the town in which
you persecute her. Your refusal to discontinue your
advances will only have the effect of driving a young lady
-- 314 --
[figure description] Page 314.[end figure description]
from the city. Choose your course, sir, and exert all
your chivalry!”
Mr. Incledon would have gone after these words, but a
gesture, so coldly menacing that it made him frown,
arrested him.
“It is true, sir,” said Mr. Fantish, white with concentrated
passion, “that you acted with a rare knowledge of
my character in speaking, to use your own words, with this
brutal and insulting frankness—it is true that I would
have rejected any remonstrance from you with contempt,
and that I now compliment your eloquence with undoubted
anger in place of contempt; but that is not all, sir!
You have presumed to charge me with dishonorable conduct
toward Miss Incledon—to catechise and reprimand
me as though I were your pupil, you my schoolmaster—
and this because I refuse to `discontinue my advances,'
as you word it, toward Miss Incledon, who has taken anything
like advances wholly on herself. Well, sir, you
shall learn now that I am not a child! You have refused
to give me the satisfaction due from one gentleman to
another, and I will publicly brand you as a man recreant
to all the dictates of gentlemanly honor!”
“Pshaw, sir,” said Mr. Incledon, wholly unmoved by
this outburst, “you will do nothing of the sort—for your
only reward will be the admiration of your friend, Captain
Tarnish and his associates. If you were to do so, however,
sir, you would state a truth which I never scruple to
express, that I do deny completely my allegiance to the
`dictates of gentlemanly honor.”'
“You mentioned my name, sir!” said a threatening
-- 315 --
[figure description] Page 315.[end figure description]
voice, as the door opened quickly—so quickly, indeed,
that it seemed not improbable that Captain Tarnish had
been listening. “Be good enough, sir, to repeat your
remark, sir!”
Mr. Incledon wheeled round and surveyed the martial
Captain with as much indignation as contempt. Then,
unable to repress something of his old nature, he said in
a tone of freezing hauteur:
“I have not the pleasure of your acquaintance, and I
will not repeat my words, sir!”
“Then, sir—”
But Captain Tarnish was not an object in his adversary's
mental horizon—he had turned his back upon the
military gentleman, and drawn two steps closer to his real
adversary.
“Mr. Fantish,” he said, speaking in a voice so deep and
solemn that it seemed to fill the whole apartment, and
grew almost painful in its low and distinct coldness;
“Mr. Fantish, there is still a last word which I wish to
say to you before I go—before I go, for you will scarcely
try to murder me before I leave this room. That last
word, sir, is one that you will doubtless listen to with contempt;
but that is little. My last word is—take care!
Yes, sir, beware of the path you advance upon, treading
down faith, and truth, and all which God, who made you,
has erected over you! Beware how you tread too carelessly
upon the dizzy verge which you are standing now
upon! I, who have followed evil like yourself, though
not such evil, or as far—I tell you that the God you laugh
at, sir, is not a bugbear of the nursery, to frighten
-- 316 --
[figure description] Page 316.[end figure description]
children! I tell you that my intellect is as strong as yours—
my sight as good, and that I am not blinded by a mockery
and a delusion. I tell you that God reigns above you—
that you are a worm beneath him—that, if you go on
in your present career, he will one day stretch out his hand
and crush you like a dangerous and venomous insect! I
tell you, sir, moreover, that your very sensual delights
will become your poison—that your worn-out body will
break down and burst beneath the strain upon it—that
the things you now regard as brightest, will be curses to
you when you die, amid the execration of all men who
hate impurity! I tell you that the God you laugh at will
have no pity for you, living and dying thus!—that if you
ever had a mother, she will never look again upon your
face! I tell you that the scoff you throw toward God
will bound back on you, and be torture to you when you
fall, struck down by one who awaits his time, and will not
spare you! That is the warning which he utters in your
hearing, sir, through myself, his poor and humble instrument.
That you despise it, or obey it, is not my affair—
it is yours! And now, sir, I take my leave of you. I
expected nothing from this interview; I am not disappointed.
I had my duty to do—that I have done—and
we go separate ways. Good morning, sir!”
And with a bow as calm and cold as upon his entrance,
Mr. Incledon passed by Captain Tarnish, who drew back
before him, and passed out, leaving Mr. Fantish trembling
with rage and menace, and a self-contempt that made him
paler that a ghost.
Yes, self-contempt!
-- 317 -- p506-324
[figure description] Page 317.[end figure description]
Yes, there was that much good left in this man, worn
out with evil passions, by debaucheries, by orgies, where
the mention of anything not wholly impure, was met with
laughter and derision. Yes, this man shook, when his
mother was recalled to him, recoiled from the picture of
himself, felt his heart sink and fail with a sick loathing of
himself, and human life, and the whole universe.
He would have struck down and annihilated the man
who thus degraded him, if his weak nerves had been
obedient; but this could not remove that terrible and
infinitely humiliating fact—the fact that he despised and
loathed himself!
CHAPTER XXVII. HOW A MAN WAS TREATED BY A WOMAN—A CHAPTER OF INTEREST TO PHILOSOPHERS.
As he had stated, Mr. Incledon expected nothing from
the interview with Mr. Fantish; and his visit had been
prompted solely by the feeling that it was his duty to do
something of this description, before speaking to his
cousin again upon the subject.
Perhaps the impression made upon Mr. Fantish was as
great as possibly could have been made under the circumstances,
by his adversary; and as he had himself acknowledged,
any mere remonstrance would have been received
with derision. Upon a man of high feeling, Mr. Incledon's
calm representations would have made a deep
-- 318 --
[figure description] Page 318.[end figure description]
impression—but his adversary was not a man of this description—
he had almost extinguished any such emotion in his
bosom long ago—and this Mr. Incledon knew, and acted
as with the knowledge of.
The result of the interview was such as he expected:—
a great deal of anger, an immense hostility, and a small
portion of shame, upon his opponent's part. But this
latter would scarely lead him to abate his insulting conduct:—
and what Mr. Incledon now had before him was
the preparation of his cousin for departure.
Once this man's old nature rising up, had whispered to
him, “Take your vengeance in your own hands; strike,
and rid yourself of this scoffing persecutor.” But he had
repelled this suggestion of his anger, without considering
it further, and had said to himself, calmly, “This is not
for me—I am not the avenger:—I will do my duty.”
Perhaps some feeling of this description assailed him
as he left the house of Mr. Fantish, where he had been met
with insults such as would, a few years before, have caused
that gentleman to lose his life. But if such thoughts
really came to him, they did not linger long in his mind.
He went on repeating, calmly, to himself—“My duty is
quite plain, and every purpose will be accomplished by
Sylvia's departure—more terrible things may be prevented.”
He reached the house, and knocked, and entered.
Miss Incledon was surrounded by several gentlemen,
and was singing gaily at the piano.
Mr. Incledon bowed low, and exchanged salutations
-- 319 --
[figure description] Page 319.[end figure description]
with the visitors; and took his part calmly in the conversation.
He remained thus, without any visible purpose, until
every gentleman had departed; and then closing the door,
took a seat opposite to his cousin.
She seemed to feel that there was something more than
a common visit intended by Mr. Incledon; and with a
vague disquiet, gazed into his collected countenance, endeavoring
to fathom its meaning, and drag up the thoughts
of her adversary—such she regarded him—buried beneath
that calmness.
But Mr. Incledon's countenance defied her most piercing
scrutiny—it betrayed nothing; and beating the carpet
impatiently with her small foot, the young lady assumed
for Mr. Incledon's benefit, the air of an irritated queen,
who was waiting to be addressed by a rebellions subject.
The comparison was not so fanciful as it may seem.
As we have said, Miss Incledon was a woman of rare
and commanding beauty, and when she chose, she could
mount, as it were, her throne, and assume, to admiration,
all the royalty of a queen. She had not that delicate and
tender loveliness which takes the heart captive, and
“lends the knee desire to kneel,” as to something pure
and beautiful, and more closely allied to things heavenly,
than anything else on earth, except it be childhood, which
such loveliness resembled—Miss Incledon had not this
beauty, which Mr. Sansoney's friend, Aurelia, certainly
possessed in a degree: but still she was a young lady of
striking beauty, and her brilliant eyes, and cheeks, and
-- 320 --
[figure description] Page 320.[end figure description]
lips, and the graceful outlines of her splendid figure, gave
her undeniable claims to admiration.
As she sat now opposite to Mr. Incledon, she was
evidently conscious of the possession of this advantage,
and her beautiful head was thrown back haughtily. With
one hand she fixed a bracelet on her dazzling white arm—
and having fixed it to her satisfaction, smoothed down
the folds of her rich silk morning dress, which swept with
its changeable sheen, the carpet at her feet.
Mr. Incledon gazed at her for a moment, and an
expression almost of sadness passed over his brow, and
dimmed his eyes. All the sensibility of his nature was
aroused within him by the unfortunate and deplorable
array of circumstances which placed him thus in hostility
to a woman whom he had loved. But there was his duty,
as he understood it, and his face very soon grew calm
again.
“Silvia,” he said, calmly: “I have just been to see
Mr. Fantish.”
The young woman could not repress a slight start, and
a faint tinge of color in her cheeks.
“Mr. Fantish!” she said, with an affection of coldness,
which was belied by the eager expression of her dark eyes.
“Yes,” said her visitor: “I have been with that gentleman
for an hour nearly.”
“Well, sir!”
And by a powerful effort she drove back the rebellious
blood to her heart, and gave him look for look, and
braced her resolution for the struggle.
Mr. Incledon, however, did not seem to feel that he
-- 321 --
[figure description] Page 321.[end figure description]
was called upon to gather any strength of this description
for himself. On the contrary, his eye and voice were
quite as calm and soft as ever when he spoke, and he
exhibited no emotion of any description.
“I was led to call upon Mr. Fantish,” he continued:
“by a recurrence of the reports which caused me so much
grief on your account; and which I had supposed Mr.
Fantish would not permit to occur again. Of these base
jests at your expense, Silvia, I will not speak. It is
enough to say that in the exercise of my discretion, based
upon my promise to your father, it seemed proper to me
that I should call on Mr. Fantish.”
Again the blood came to her cheek, and she said,
bitterly:
“Well, sir—I suppose you are my guardian, and that
I am a child to be directed and regulated. I am not
surprised!”
“You should not be,” he returned; “and I regret
deeply that you should regard what I have done, Silvia,
as an impertinence, and an insult. Do not deny it,
Silvia—that would be useless: your eyes speak.”
“I do not deny it, sir!” she said, carried away by her
anger.
He only bowed, and then said:
“Mr. Fantish and myself discussed at length the subject
of these reports, and the interview was far from being
a very friendly one—”
“As I suppose, sir!”
“Your supposition, Silvia, is quite correct. Indeed
how could we speak as friends?”
-- 322 --
[figure description] Page 322.[end figure description]
“I can understand why you could not, sir! Mr. Fantish
is a friend of mine.”
“How unjust you are.”
“Unjust!”
“Yes—terribly. It is a bitter injustice to thus hurl in
my teeth, Silvia, such a charge as this—that I am your
enemy.”
“Are you not, sir?”
“Oh, no: a thousand times, no!”
“I do not like such friends, sir.”
He looked at her cold and disdainful countenance for
some moments and an expression of softness and pity
came to his calm face, and he sighed audibly.
“Such friends?” he said; “you do not like such
friends, Silvia? what have I done to make you hate me?”
She did not deny the feeling imputed to her by look or
word, but said, angrily, and with a flushed countenance.
“I will tell you, sir, what you have done! You have
placed yourself before me, sir, at every turn—you have
chosen to regard the commonplace speech made by my
father, when I left home, as an authority to watch, and
spy out, and misconstrue all my movements! You have
treated me—a grown woman—as if I were a baby! and
have affected through all this, the greatest magnanimity
and nobleness forsooth! and talked about your duty,
making that your apology for your insufferable persecution!”
The flushed face and burning eyes were turned full
upon him, and the young woman's hands trembled with
anger as she extended them in the heat of speaking,
-- 323 --
[figure description] Page 323.[end figure description]
toward him whom she addressed. Her voice was full of
insult and hostility—her white teeth for a moment closed;
and her eyes glared as only those of a woman thoroughly
aroused, can.
But he remained calm. The sad expression deepened:
and his voice was softer and more pitying than ever when
he said:
“Insufferable persecution?” Do you, then, regard my
brotherly regard and solicitude for your welfare, Silvia,
as an insufferable persecution?”
“Yes, sir, I do!” she said, “I do! Your brotherly
regard and solicitude, as you are pleasad to call it, sir, is
a very convenient sentiment, and adapts itself without difficulty
to any action you perform in relation to myself.
Perhaps, it would be better to say—if I am forced to
speak, sir,—that your `regard' for me was something
more than `brotherly'—and that `solicitude' you speak of
caused by something else than duty!”
“Something else?” he said, softly—“by what else,
Silvia?”
“By jealousy, sir! You affect to pity me, and you will
end by making me hate you, sir!” said the young woman,
with burning cheeks, and carried away by rage, at what
she considered an exhibition of contempt upon her visitor's
part: you affect to pity me! and you reply to my
defence of myself against your calumnies, by an affectation
of pity,' and—with an injured air—and then you drawl
out `Silvia,' to make me think you are not moved! Be
good enough, sir, added the young woman, completely
aroused, and trying to affect haughtiness; be good enough
-- 324 --
[figure description] Page 324.[end figure description]
to call me by my proper name—Miss Incledon! I am not
aware of any right you have to address me as you do!”
“I will not, if it is disagreeable to you—”
“It is, sir!”
He bowed his head.
It is, and you will oblige me, sir, by ceasing to address
me thus from this time forth!”
He bowed again: the old expression of softness and
pity had never left his face for a moment.
“It is a little thing to ask,” he said, “I only grieve to
think that, trifle as it is, however, it is prompted by a sentiment
of hostility which I deeply lament, but cannot help.
I have only striven to do my duty.”
“Duty! there it is again, sir—your duty!”
“Oh, yes!”
“And this prompted, doubtless, that fine `brotherly
solicitude' you spoke of, sir!”
“Indeed, it did!”
The beautiful lip curled, and she said, with a sneer,
which was painful to see.
“I repeat, sir, that your solicitude was anything but
`brotherly!' You condescended to place your affection
upon my humble self; and when I chose to exercise my right
as a free woman, to prefer another—you became very solicitious
all at once about my welfare—and your `brotherly
solicitude' assumed the shape of hostility to Mr. Fantish.
“Jealousy! oh, Silvia! Silvia!—pardon me! You
say again that I have acted as I have done from jealousy
of Mr. Fantish? What a deep injustice.”
“Yes, I do, sir! I assert it plainly, as you drive me
-- 325 --
[figure description] Page 325.[end figure description]
to it! I assert that your `uneasiness' as you were pleased
to call it, in a former interview—your uneasiness about
me, I say, commenced, just when you found that your
addresses were becoming disagreeable—when I preferred,
you thought, another person. You came one morning,
sir, if you will deign to recollect, and, because I did not
leave my hand in your own, as we sat there upon the
sofa!—because I drew away the tress of my hair which
you curled around your finger!—because I said that our
cousinly familiarity must not be gone on with—because I
told you that, sir, you must suddenly assume that I am in
a dangerous position: that Mr. Fantish is a dishonorable
man, and that your lordship must watch over your bondwoman
and preserve her from your rival.”
Pausing, overwhelmed with bitter and scornful passion,
the young woman panted, and trembled, and grew by turns
pale and crimson with her rage.
Every word she uttered pierced his heart; and his most
cruel enemy could not have devised a punishment more
bitter to his high and noble nature. The bitter words
struck all his pride, and the recollection of his pure and
gentle love. That he should be charged with acting from
a base and miserable selfishness, instead of from a large
and noble sense of duty!—that he should be accused of
such hypocrisy, as he drew back from, in his very imagination,
with a shudder!—that, lastly, the woman whom
he had regarded as a tender and lovely girl, and so commenced
loving purely and deeply, should thus cast in his
teeth, with bitter scorn, the scenes in which he had exhibited
his innocent fondness! Surely—he thought with a
-- 326 --
[figure description] Page 326.[end figure description]
grief and suffering too deep for words—surely, the hand
that launched this bitterly poisoned arrow, must be cruel
indeed!
Only a flitting shadow, however, betrayed the passage
of such thoughts as these, through Mr. Incledon's heart.
With that strength of control, which he had struggled for
through years, and at last attained, he forcibly suppressed
any exhibition of his emotion, and regarded the young
woman, when she concluded her bitter speech, with a calm
softness, even more marked than before.
“Silvia!” he said, gently, “and I must ask you to pardon
me for thus addressing you—for I cannot school myself
so soon to that hostility and coldness, which you say
we have adopted toward each other—Silvia, the words
you have just uttered, would, perhaps, arouse in me some
of that ill-temper, which is my besetting sin, if I did not
feel convinced that these expressions are the fruits of momentary
irritation—an irritation I have had the bad fortune,
I am afraid, to cause; and which I lament deeply—
from the bottom of my heart. I cannot bring myself to
think that in your cooler moments you would taunt me
thus with having experienced for you an affection, pure
and sincere—and scoff at me for the innocent exhibition
of my feeling. You say, that because one day you drew
back from my customary familiarity—that because you
drew away the hand you gave me always—disengaged the
tress I touched—and warned me that you could not suffer
me to approach you thus familiarly again—you say that
in consequence of this, I became jealous; that I watched
your movements—that I acted the spy to find out who had
-- 327 --
[figure description] Page 327.[end figure description]
supplanted me; and finding that your preference was
given to Mr. Fantish, recollected suddenly your father's
charge to me—and used that charge to gain an advantage
over one I looked on as my rival! This you accuse me of;
and I should be astonished at the ingenuity of your accusation,
if it did not cause me so much pain. Your lip
curls, Silvia, and you think my tone of calmness proves
that I am acting. Oh, I am not, Silvia! You are not
able even to conceive the pain you cause me by these cruel
and unjust words. A thousand times unjust!—a thousand
times more cruel than I deserve! In the presence of my
God, Silvia, to whom I owe allegiance, and who reads the
secrets of all hearts—before God and man, I declare that
this is bitterly unjust! That I loved you then I do not
deny—that your affection was the dream and desire of my
whole being I will not deny—that the repulse you gave
me, caused me many hours of suffering and melancholy,
I will not conceal. But never, on my honor, as a gentleman!
by my faith as a Christian gentleman, never did I
follow you, or watch your movements, or endeavor to supplant
the man who took my place, or thwart you! Had
Mr. Fantish been an honorable man, he never even would
have known that the poor gentleman he passed coming
out sorrowfully, as he entered with a smile, had been made
miserable by his appearance! He never would have
known that he had made me suffer—never! I would
have yielded you to an honorable gentleman, without a
word, and gone away and left you to your joy and happiness!
But, Silvia, I am forced to say again—to repeat
always, for the fact is my sole vindication—I am forced
-- 328 --
[figure description] Page 328.[end figure description]
again to say that Mr. Fantish is not an honorable man!
that he looks upon women as his playthings! that he is
utterly incapable of pure affection,—and that what he has
done has proved the truth of this a thousand times!”
Mr. Incledon's calm face grew dark as he spoke, but he
suppressed this evidence of feeling quickly, and went on,
without regarding the looks of burning anger which the
young lady cast upon him.
“And now, Silvia,” he said, “I have brought my vindication
to the time, when driven by my duty—by my
promise, sacredly given to your father—I found myself
compelled to take up a position of hostility to this
gentleman. I heard everywhere that he was in the habit
of making speeches about yourself which no honorable
man could bring his lips to utter! I heard in the street,
at entertainments, in my evening visits to my friends,
those stories which a certain class of persons spend their
lives in whispering through society, and you were the
heroine of them! I heard that Mr. Fantish made your
love for him the subject of his gayest and most brilliant
jests! I heard, that in the circle which he frequents, the
utterance of your name had become the signal for a burst
of laughter! I heard that your very entrance into party
rooms, would soon become the occasion of a suppressed
titter! and that every person would deride you, and say
of you, further, what my lips will not utter—what my
brain cannot conceive, but draws back from, sick and
incredulous, and scornful! Do you understand now! Do
you comprehend the state of things I was forced to
measure, coolly and calmly, with fiery eyes—to brace my
-- 329 --
[figure description] Page 329.[end figure description]
strength, collect all my coolness to grapple with! Do
you see now that some other sentiment than jealousy
aroused my fear and anger, and what you have styled my
persecution, my impertinence! If you do not see this—
if you still close your eyes—you are stone blind, or wilfully
blind—and I can only tell you, that you walk upon
a slumbering volcano!”
The suppressed excitement with which Mr. Incledon
uttered these words, was more impressive than the most
passionate outburst; and for a moment the young lady's
eye fell before his fixed look—for an instant her lips grew
pale; and she pressed her hand upon her heart as though
she were about to faint.
Had this suppression lasted a few moments longer, Mr.
Incledon would have lost his self-possession—melted from
his stern feeling—and besought her to forget his words,
the painful facts they dealt with—everything but her old
country home, and those who loved her—and so come
with him—and pardon anything in his words which had
offended her—and going to her parents, never look upon
his face again, if it was painful to her. All his tenderness
of heart was aroused by the position he sustained—
a position to which a vortex of fate had hurled him without
any exercise of will on his part—a position of hostility
to, and contest with a woman. Convinced as he
was, that every step he had taken was forced on him by
uncompromising duty—that he could not have done differently—
that his honor, and his cousin's, both called out
for this—nothing but this—still his chivalry of gentleman
made him tremble at the thought of using even what
-- 330 --
[figure description] Page 330.[end figure description]
resembled force toward a woman:—and if at that moment
Miss Incledon had shed a single tear; if the least tremor
in her voice had shown that she was overcome by the
terrible array of facts—Mr. Incledon would have lost his
calmness wholly—begged for her forgiveness, and besought
her, on his knees, if necessary, to go with him,
home to her parents, from the town in which she had experienced
such suffering!
Mr. Incledon did not know his cousin. Instead of
raising her eyes in tears, she erected her head haughtily,
and looked at him with a fire which would speedily have
dried up any moisture in her brilliant eyes. Her manner
was more defiant than ever—her beautiful lip curled with
more bitter scorn—she resembled nothing so much as a
beautiful tigress, ready to spring upon her enemy.
“Well, sir,” she said: and her words were almost exactly
those of Mr. Fantish an hour before. “Well, sir!
if you have finished your fine discourse upon propriety,
perhaps you will deign to inform me of the purpose of
this visit!”
He gazed at her with an expression impossible to describe,
and was silent for some minutes. Then gradually,
and, as it were, one by one, all these complicated emotions
disappeared, and his perfect calmness came back—very
soon, even his old softness. Perhaps no day in his whole
life presented so fine an exhibition of this man's high dignity
and delicacy of temperament, as the few moments in
which this change took place.
When he spoke it was with as much calmness and gentleness,
as if he had not been insulted, outraged, scoffed
-- 331 -- p506-338
[figure description] Page 331.[end figure description]
at;—as if he had been taking part in a pleasant and
agreeable conversation with a cherished friend.”
CHAPTER XXVIII. THE LETTER.
“Silvia,” he said, gently, “I commenced this interview
by saying that I had been to see Mr. Fantish.”
“You did, sir!”
“If, unhappily, we had not fallen into this discussion—”
“Say this quarrel, sir!”
“No; I have not quarreled with you, and will not. If,
I say, we had not been betrayed into this melancholy discussion,
I would have explained to you at once the purpose
of my visit.
“Well, sir, you can do so now.”
“I will proceed to do so; and if any word of mine is
worth your attention, let me beseech you not to load me
with those reproaches and bitter speeches, which you seem
to think—”
“You deserve, sir! Is that your meaning?”
“No, Silvia,” he said, sadly.
“Well, sir, I will endeavor to forget the causes of
complaint I have against you, and listen calmly.”
She looked so dignified as she spoke thus, and assumed
an expression of so much injured innocence that it might
have made a great actress envy her.
-- 332 --
[figure description] Page 332.[end figure description]
“I called on Mr. Fantish this morning,” said Mr. Incledon,
“and informed him that I had heard all the details
of these unhappy matters.”
“Indeed, sir!”
“Yes.”
“No doubt he was entertained by your visit!”
“How scornful you are, Silvia.”
“Because you compel me to be, sir.”
“I would not.”
“You do.”
“I deeply regret that my very voice should have this
effect upon you then: but let me proceed.”
“I listen, sir.”
“I informed Mr. Fantish of our relationship—”
“Which he knew already.”
“Yes—and that made it a greater trial.”
“Indeed, sir!”
“Yes; an insult to a gentleman's friend may anger
him—an insult to his cousin cuts him like a sword.”
“I am flattered at hearing you retain so much brotherly
regard for me!”
“Ah, Silvia! Silvia! how you wound me. You are
not content to hear that my interview with Mr. Fantish
was a great trial—”
“You brought it upon yourself by your own act, I
believe, sir! Did Mr. Fantish request the interview?”
Mr. Incledon shok his head sadly, and gave up the
discussion without further words.
“I said, Silvia,” he continued, “that Mr. Fantish was
cognizant of the fact of our relationship throughout the
-- 333 --
[figure description] Page 333.[end figure description]
interview—and, at the risk of exciting your feelings, I
must add that he knew of the charge which your father
gave me.”
“The charge—”
“Yes, Silvia.”
“Of your lordship's quality of guardian!”
Arrested incessantly thus by these bitter and scornful
taunts, Mr. Incledon nevertheless did not lose his temper.
“I informed Mr. Fantish,” he said, calmly, “that I had
called in right of my relationship, and in further right of
my charge from your father, to say that the continuance
of the jest in relation to yourself, Silvia, would make it
necessary for you to abandon the city.”
“You presumed to threaten that!” cried Miss Incledon,
in a perfect rage.
“Yes,” was the reply, “it was my only course, Silvia.”
“You presumed, sir, to say that my movements would
be coerced by yourself, in case—”
He went on thus: “Yes, Silvia, that is what I felt it
my duty to say to Mr. Fantish, though not precisely that.”
And Mr. Incledon gazed sadly at the countenance,
whose beauty had all fallen away, and been swallowed up
in the storm of passion.
For a time Miss Incledon glared at him—one can find
no other word—as though she would have struck him to
the earth with her eyes. Then finding her speech, she
cried passionately:
“You are most brave, sir! most courageous! You
are exceedingly chivalric and disinterested! How I
admire and respect you, and look up to you for your
-- 334 --
[figure description] Page 334.[end figure description]
noble and devoted courage! I despise you, sir!” she
cried, losing her affected irony, and yielding to a mad
rage. “I call you a dishonored gentleman! I say you have
not one spark of that honor which your family expected
of you—that it is a taint to be connected with you as I
am, sir! You would run away with me, forsooth, sir!
You would take me away! try it, sir! Yes, sir, you
have acted nobly! You say that my honor required this
visit—you say that Mr. Fantish has uttered slanders
against me, which is false!—you say that I will be the
laughing-stock of society, if something is not done in this
terrible and dreadful emergency! Did it not occur to
you, sir, that there was something possible besides running
away—besides threatening to carry me away, a
threat, sir, which you will not dare to perform!—did it
never strike you, sir, when you went to see Mr. Fantish,
that if you are a gentleman, and possess a spark of
courage, there is the ordinary means of gentlemen, to
right your honor and my own! No, sir! I will answer
for you! You never thought of it! you shrunk from the
thought of meeting Mr. Fantish!—you know he would
shoot you, sir, and you have an especial regard for your
life! You refused to meet these charges, if they existed,
like a gentleman, and you now wish to carry me away,
and go yourself!—you will not take the pistol which a
brave gentleman offers to you!—in a word, you are a
coward, sir,—a craven! I despise you from the bottom
of my heart!”
There are moments when the calmest man becomes
heated—times when the coldest blood boils up—the
-- 335 --
[figure description] Page 335.[end figure description]
palest cheek flushes—the most quiet eyes flash like
lightning.
It was this change which took place in Mr. Incledon's
appearance:—these evidences of emotion were visible
upon his face as he rose to his full height, and looked
down on the woman who was thus guilty of the unpardonable
and degrading offence of offering insult to a
gentleman. All this man's old nature, which had been
the very echo of chivalric sentiment, recoiled before the
corroding flood of insult poured upon him—and with
flashing eyes, heaving bosom, and haughty attitude, he
stood for a moment, grinding his nails into his hands and
shuddering with rage.
The expression of his face awed the young woman, and
in presence of a nature stronger and more largely moulded
than her own, she drew back, and half wished she had
never uttered what excited this terrible emotion.
She looked half fearfully at the man she had insulted,
and saw his countenance pass rapidly from rage to deep
contempt—and then her anger flushed back to her face,
and every nerve was braced to meet the trial—the
rebound.
The rebound never came.
Mr. Incledon's passion was no match for his vast self-control;
and like the waves of a troubled sea after a
storm, his rage and contempt grew gradually less; and
holding down the least evidence of adverse feeling, his
countenance settled into repose.
He tried to speak, but no words issued from his lips; and
standing thus dumb before the young woman, whom he
-- 336 --
[figure description] Page 336.[end figure description]
looked down upon from the height of his collected calmness,
Mr. Incledon presented an appearance of such
grandeur and nobility, that the eyes of the weak woman
sank again before him, and the sullen words she was
about to utter, died upon her lips.
It was in the middle of this silence, so profound that
the fall of a leaf might have been heard, that Mr. Incledon
again spoke.
His voice was not yet under his command, but it
gathered strength as he proceeded, and grew perfectly
calm at last.
“Silvia,” he said, “the words which you have just
uttered, are such as no lady, even under any circumstances,
should be led to address to a gentleman. I do not say
this angrily, as you may see by looking at my face; and
not as a reply to your own bitter and unpardonable speech.
I say it that you may never in future address such words
to a gentleman—for nothing will more completely ruin
you in every honorable person's estimation, nothing will
be instrumental in causing so much bloodshed as a habit
so terrible as this. Had you spoken thus to me, some
years since, the result would have been unfortunate to some
one of your family, or to myself:—I should have made
you a low bow and taken my departure; but blood would
have flowed to wash out these expressions. Of course it
is irrational, ludicrous, and monstrous, that your brother's
blood should flow for words you have uttered—but I tell
you, Silvia, that nothing arouses in a certain class of men,
the devil of blood, more certainly than just such words as
you have spoken, only a few minutes since, to me! You
-- 337 --
[figure description] Page 337.[end figure description]
will not disregard my advice, even coming as it does from
one whom you heartily despise. A few words more, however,
before I go—they are proper, even necessary. I
will not refer to your imputations upon my courage—imputations
which were worded with such bitterness, that my
old nervous temper carried me away at first—you saw it;
I will not speak of this, further than to say, that you are
quite correct in thinking that I would not send a challenge,
to fight a duel, to Mr. Fantish. He offered me a pistol
already loaded, and I refused it—would not take my position.
That is the simple fact. The interview was quite
peaceable—few criminations were exchanged—and I have
only to regret that I came away with the certainty that
Mr. Fantish will continue to abuse your name, and possibly—
it may be—even add to his offence from hatred to
myself. I have only to say then, that I shall this evening
do what I am driven to do by my sense of honor, by my
sacred promise, and by my absolute conviction of my simple
duty,—I shall write to Runland, telling Mr. Incledon, my
uncle and your father, that his presence is needed here, on
business of importance. He will come at once, and then
I shall be freed from this responsibility, and it will lie
with him. You start! Why should you? Surely, if I
have been foolishly sensitive in this affair, and Mr. Fantish
is the model of propriety you think him—surely, you
cannot fear to tell your father, Silvia, everything.”
And with perfect calmness, Mr. Incledon, bowed put
on his hat, and went toward the door.
-- 338 -- p506-345
CHAPTER XXIX. DELILAH.
[figure description] Page 338.[end figure description]
The singular interview between these two persons had
lasted so long—so many various passions had modified
and changed the aspect of the scene, as it passed through
all its agitated steps—that one might very readily have
supposed that the words uttered by Mr. Incledon would
have sealed up any further discussion, ended all contest;
and left silence in possession of the spot, which had been
visited with all these clashing and discordant passions,
raising each its head, and trying to hiss loudest, or strike
deadliest.
Such, indeed, might have been the event, if Mr. Incledon
only had been consulted. But there was another:
the beautiful woman who had been beaten at every turn,
foiled with far sharper weapons, and overwhelmed by a
last blow as sudden as it was conclusive.
A rapid thought, which now occurred to Miss Incledon,
prolonged the interview: and we shall proceed to show
the result of this thought, as well as what it was.
For an instant Miss Incledon remained overwhelmed
before the announcement of Mr. Incledon that he was
going to dispatch that letter;—then all the consequences
of such a proceeding seemed to flash upon her.
She rose to her feet, and uttered a suppressed moan,
as though an arrow had pierced her side.
“Do—not, write!” she said, almost inaudibly.
-- 339 --
[figure description] Page 339.[end figure description]
“I must, Silvia,” was the reply.
“Do not write—to-day, then.”
“Why not? Oh! Silvia!” he said, with melancholy
earnestness, “do not look at me so coldly, as if I were
some enemy arrayed against you! I am not an enemy!
but a thousand times your friend! Do not imagine that
I triumph in this blow which leads you to thus change
your tone from menance to supplication. Oh, no! heaven
knows, Silvia, I would see your face covered with smiles
of joy and happiness, not full of gloom as it is now. I
am a weak man when a woman looks at me; and in spite
of all your terrible attacks, of all the insult you have
addressed to me, I feel toward you far more of pity than
of hostility.”
She looked strangely at him, as though measuring his
strength, and the probability of moving him: but she said
nothing.
He misunderstood her look, and thought it one of despair
and submission; and his noble nature, losing sight
of all the outrages which this woman had been guilty of,
made him pity her, and commiserate the unhappy position
in which her passion had placed her.
“You doubt my sincerity, perhaps,” said Mr. Incledon,
pausing on the threshold of the door, and gazing at her
with noble kindness—“you cannot believe that I have forgiven
you—you think that I have told you of my intention
to despatch that letter with a sentiment of triumph
at the stroke I played—of joy at having my revenge.
Oh, no, Silvia! that is not so. I do not triumph—you
are not an enemy—you are a woman. I would not see
-- 340 --
[figure description] Page 340.[end figure description]
you suffer, though you have made me suffer much. From
the bottom of my heart, I lament the fatality which
drives me to thus oppose you, but I have my duty to
perform!”
During the utterance of these words, Miss Incledon had
continued to gaze upon her visitor—a thought seeming
slowly and gradually to unfold its mysterious wings in the
depths of her subtle mind. As though dazzled by this
thought; subdued by its very conception, her eyes sank
at last, and the long lashes concealed the tell-tale orbs,
and that expression of a resolution formed, what they
contained.
Mr. Incledon came to the end of his speech, was bowing,
and had nearly turned away, when the young woman
covered her face with her hands, bent down almost to her
knee, and, as if under the impression that her visitor had
departed—burst into a torrent of passionate sobs, which
seemed to be the irrepressible expression of an opposition
broken down and humbled to the dust.
Her dark hair fell in disordered tresses on her cheeks—
her beautiful neck was shaken with sobs as she bent down
to her knee—and taking one hand from her face, she in
vain endeavored to find her handkerchief, which lay at her
feet, but seemed to be concealed from her by her tears.
Mr. Incledon turned;—paused;—advanced a step dubiously,
then paused again; and ended by returning quickly
to the young woman's side, and picking up the handkerchief
she sought.
“Tears, Silvia!” he said—“in tears! what pain you
-- 341 --
[figure description] Page 341.[end figure description]
give me! There is no reason for this weeping—you
exaggerate all this. You must not weep!”
And his softened gaze fell upon the weeping woman—a
gaze, mild, and full of pity and kindness.
“Here is your handkerchief which you seem to be seeking,”
he said, placing the lace-ornamented cambric in her
hand; “come, Silvia, dry your tears, and do not pain me
by thus yielding to a groundless fear.”
“Don't mind me—I am weak and foolish—you must
despise—me—but—”
And sobbing more than ever, the young woman bent
still lower, and shook from head to foot.
“Despise you, Silvia!” he said—“despise you—Oh,
no, Silvia! You are greatly deceived.”
“You must!” she sobbed.
“Why should I?”
“I have—been so—weak and—silly and—insulting!
I have uttered such insulting words to you—forgive—me—
oh, forgive me!”
“From my heart,” said Mr. Incledon, with noble simplicity.
“I have tried your patience—so—I have been—”
“Forget it, Silvia! we have all quick tempers in our
family, and it is scarcely strange that you should have felt
some irritation at what you were led to consider interference.”
“Oh, it was not—it was—brotherly kindness!”
Mr. Incledon gazed at the young woman in astonishment;
for he could scarcely comprehend the possibility
of so complete an abandonment of her ground. He knew
-- 342 --
[figure description] Page 342.[end figure description]
Silvia well, and was perfectly well acquainted with her
sure determination and persistence in any course she had
adopted—another trait of the Incledons. His astonishment,
thus, was for a moment very great; but his pleasure
was still greater: and taking kindly the hand which hung
down at her side, he pressed it in his friendly grasp, and
said:
“You make me happier than I can express, Silvia, by
thus assuring me that you do not really regard my agency
in this unhappy affair as out of place, or prompted by a
spirit of hostility. Oh, let me confess to you now what
I never could have said before, that your suffering is
mine—that I tremble when you tremble—that my affection
for you is deep and sincere, though wholly unlike
what I once experienced for you. You are my cousin—
my blood flows in your veins—you cannot think your unhappiness
a matter of indifference to me!”
There was so much kindness and simplicity in the
voice which uttered these words, that a for a moment Miss
Incledon's sobs ceased, and she quickly drew away her
hand.
“Mr. Fantish cannot feel for you so pure and brotherly
a kindness,” he added: and to his great astonishment the
hand which she had drawn away was placed again in his,
and her sobs recommenced with greater violence than ever.
If this were not the genuine promptings of a better
nature, the reader will not fail to agree with us, that
subtlety so deep and perfect seldom dwells in a woman's
bosom.
“Yes,” he said, “we can now speak frankly and plainly
-- 343 --
[figure description] Page 343.[end figure description]
about all this—though perhaps it would be better to dismiss
the subject. But do not weep, Silvia.”
“You are so good!” she said.
Again his astonishment was extreme; but it disappeared
as quickly. Great minds have little room in them
for mistrust; and Mr. Incledon's nature was as unsuspecting,
when thrown off its guard, as that of a child.
“My motives are good, Silva,” he said, “but I fear my
manner of acting is very faulty and ill-advised very often.”
“Oh, no—it is noble—like yourself—I do not deserve
all this goodness—Ralph!”
And having uttered his name thus, in a timid and hesitating
voice, she gradually grew calmer, as though she
had thus accomplished the last act of submission.
It is strange how a trifle such as this affects a man.
She had spoken to him throughout the former portions of
their interview, with a cold “sir,” as frequently as she
could drag this exhibition of ill-humor in; and her whole
manner had been shaped in such a way, as to convey to
him the impression, that his very presence was an offence
against her. Now, however, her broken sobs indicated
weakness and submission—her flattering testimony to his
kindness, showed that she repented of her rudeness—lastly,
her use thus of his Christian name, completed the evidence
of her change of feeling, and made him once more the kind
cousin and companion he had been to her in the past.
Her manner and address conveyed all this, and even
more; and Mr. Incledon was not philosopher enough to
steel himself against the change in her tone.
“We were—happy once. Oh, why cannot we be
-- 344 --
[figure description] Page 344.[end figure description]
again!” she said, “how unhappy all these bickerings
are.'
“You are the good, sweet Silvia of the past, now,” said
Mr. Incledon, smiling kindly. “Oh, remain always so.”
“I will try,” she said, “but how—how can you—pardon
me for—not giving up Mr. Fantish!”
And she sobbed again.
“You will forget him, Silvia,” was the reply; “this
is merely a passing fancy. Do not think I have any idea
of renewing my pretensions to your hand—I speak as an
elder brother; and I assure you this unhappy affair will
never cloud your young life—never.”
“Oh—I—I—how can I acknowledge it?”
And she covered her face with her hands, as though
overwhelmed with confusion; and ashamed to meet his
eyes.
“You love him?”
“Yes,” she murmured.
“You deceive yourself, Silvia,” he said, calmly; “you
do not know your feelings. You think that the pleasing
impression Mr. Fantish has produced upon you is genuine
love—but you are mistaken.”
“Oh—can I be?”
“Easily. This man cannot fill the capacity of your
heart—he is different from what your fancy has painted
him. He is shallow, and selfish, and depraved. There
is the simple truth—I know it wounds you and offends
you—but I think it best to speak to you with the plainest
frankness.”
“Oh, no, I am not offended.”
-- 345 --
[figure description] Page 345.[end figure description]
“He would never make you happy.”
“Do you think not?”
“Never.”
Miss Incledon sighed as though she were beginning to
be convinced by her companion's reasoning.
“But I ought to give him a trial—I ought to be more
guarded than I have been in my manner. I ought to act
carefully—ought I not to—Ralph?”
And she raised her beautiful eyes, still moist with
tears, to his face timidly, then lowered them again.
“Act carefully, Silvia? Assuredly you should,” he
said.
“I should see him again.”
“I see no objection to your receiving him before you
go.”
She colored, but suppressed this emotion instantly.
“Ralph,” she said, softly, and turning her face up
toward him with a winning smile: “do you know that
your goodness made me for a moment think that you
would yield to a request I thought of making you?”
“A request, Silvia?” he said, with an admiration of
her beauty, which he could not prevent his eyes from
revealing.
“Yes, Ralph, a simple favor.”
“What is it?”
“You will not be angry?”
“Certainly not, Silvia.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite sure.”
“Whatever it may be?”
-- 346 --
[figure description] Page 346.[end figure description]
“I do not think you could make me angry by requesting
me to do you a `simple favour,”' he said, smiling.
“Don't you?”
And her beautiful eyes dwelt softly on his face.
“Indeed, no, Silvia.”
“I have offended you so much already,” she murmured,
with an air of self-reproach. “I am so weak and passionate,
and bad.”
“No, no, Silvia! you do not make allowance for
quickness and impulse. You must not slander yourself.”
“Ah!” she sighed, gently.
“I will take your part against yourself,” he said,
smiling kindly.
“Then I shall have a very noble knight.”
And again her look stole softly and admiringly to his
face, and she was silent.
“But your request?” he said: and if Miss Incledon's
intention in this eye-manoeuvring was to throw her visitor
off his guard, the fact of his thus returning to the subject
was a proof of her success; “you wished to request
something of me, Silvia.”
“Yes.”
And she sighed.
“I listen.”
“Again, you will not be angry?”
“No, indeed.
“Nor think it strange?”
“Why, how can I tell that? But I suppose not.”
“And you'll—grant it—Ralph?” she said, more softly
than she had yet spoken: indeed, very tenderly—flooding
-- 347 --
[figure description] Page 347.[end figure description]
him with her softest, saddest, fondest, and most winning
smile; “you'll grant it—Ralph?”
For a moment it seemed to Mr. Incledon that he had
heard a voice more than human in its wondrous music;
and he listened still to its metallic vibration when she had
done speaking. His admiration was quite plain to her,
and she laid her warm hand upon his own, and pressed
his fingers in a cousinly way, and said again:
“You'll grant my little favor, won't you, Ralph?”
“What is it?” Mr. Incledon said, smiling.
“Say you'll grant it.”
“No, indeed, Silvia, that would not be honest: for I
certainly will not if it is anything dreadful and terrible.”
He smiled again as he spoke, and gazed at the beautiful
face admiringly.
“Well,” she said, concealing her disappointment and
displeasure at the ill-success of all her pleading; “well,
Ralph, it is not so terrible or dreadful—and I'm sure you
will not think it wrong in me to ask you—not to—write
that letter!”
There it was at last: and if Mr. Incledon had taken
the trouble to cast his memory back over the last ten
minutes, he would have been struck with wonder by the
admirable adroitness with which the request was gently
edged out, so to speak, from the lady's lips.
“Not write that letter, Silvia!” he said; “but really
I must.”
“Oh, no, you will not, I am sure.”
“Indeed, I will.”
“You do not care anything for me!”
-- 348 --
[figure description] Page 348.[end figure description]
And the beautiful face turned away with an expression
of ill-humor and displeasure which was far from being
affected.
Mr. Incledon looked at her in silence for some time, and
then sighing, said:
“It seems our fate, Silvia, always to have opposing
wishes and opinions. You ask me not to write this letter—
but think what it is. It is very simple. You are
placed under my charge by your father—you are persecuted
by Mr. Fantish—you think Mr. Fantish a better
man than I consider him; and there is, upon the point
of his conduct toward you, the most serious difference of
opinion between you and myself. In this state of things
I prefer yielding up a charge which places me in a position
hostile to the wishes of a lady, who is my cousin—I
wish to say to your father, and my uncle, `here, sir, is
what you delivered to me—my responsibility—take it
back!'—I wish, in a word, Silvia, to end what you even
now consider a very singular sort of guardianship, and go
back to my studies. I am too young to judge of the
species of match suitable for you—I have not scrupled to
declare that Mr. Fantish is the last man I would see
approach you, spite of the fact that you prefer him to all
others: and so you have the reasons, fully expressed, why
I must, as an act of justice to myself, write to your father,
and demand his presence.”
The young lady listened in silence to these calmlyuttered
words, and, as the speaker concluded, gazed keenly
at his countenance to see if there was any hope of shaking
-- 349 --
[figure description] Page 349.[end figure description]
his resolution. The scrutiny drew from her a sigh of ill-humor,
amounting almost to anger, and she turned away.
Then came to her eyes again that strange expression,
which seemed to denote the conception of some hazardous
scheme; and slowly her face grew calm and smiling again,
and her eyes soft.
“Well, Ralph, she said, “I cannot dispute the propriety
of your resolution, and I know you will always act
nobly. I always knew that.”
“Did you?”
“Yes—you smile!—but do not think too harshly of
my bad, rude words.”
“Do not speak again of them, Silvia. I have forgotten
them.”
“You are so kind!—and this gives me courage to ask
of you, as a favor, Ralph, that—but you will refuse me.
You are in the mood for refusing everything.”
“Indeed, no, Silvia!”
“Not even me?”
“You less than any one, almost—for you deserve to
have this granted, as your other was denied.”
“Then, Ralph, I wished to ask,” she said, with her
softest and most fascinating smile, and in the gentlest
voice, “I wished to ask if you would please delay writing
for three days—until I have an interview with Mr. Fantish,
to determine whether I should ever see him again.
I would not like, you know, to think every moment that
my father would walk in, and—and surprise me. Does
that seem ill-advised to you?—I hope it does not—
Ralph.”
-- 350 --
[figure description] Page 350.[end figure description]
He was silent for a moment, and in that time turned
the young woman's request over, viewing it in every
light—why, he could scarcely have explained.
“I see not the least objection, Silvia, to granting your
request,” he said, “and I will not write until Thursday
morning.”
“Thank you, Ralph—thank you—I am eternally obliged
to you.”
“Are you?”
“Yes—how can I thank you?”
“I do not know; I hope in no possible way, however,
for I have some business to attend to, and have been here
all the morning. Yes, Silvia, I willingly accede to your
request—and on Thursday morning I will see you again.
The shorter your interview with Mr. Fantish the better, I
think. For heaven's sake forget him, Silvia—as you love
your parents, home, your name, and all that is pure and
honorable; he is not your peer—and now, good bye.”
She pressed his hand warmly—looked at him with a
smile of triumph, which she could not conceal, and as he
disappeared, closing the door, shook her hand at him, and
rubbing in disgust the spot upon it which his own had
touched, muttered triumphantly:
“Fool! shallow fool!—tricked after all your boasting,
by a woman you dared to offend!”
These were the events of a morning.
-- 351 -- p506-358
CHAPTER XXX. THE NIGHT PRECEDING THURSDAY MORNING: THREE SCENES OF THE COMEDY.
[figure description] Page 351.[end figure description]
In Mr. Fantish's elegant domicil and in that portion
of it which has the honor of frequently beholding Mr. Fantish
in a state of repose, or in his dressing gown, or
shaving—namely in that gentleman's bed-chamber, preparations
seem to be going on for something like a journey.
Two gilt gas burners fixed to the wall on each side of
the Psyche-mirror in whose polished surface Mr. Fantish
is accustomed to survey his manifold graces and elegances,
cast their steady glare on the rich chamber, with its
luminous appointments—on the closed shutters through
which shines the white light of the cold snow—and on the
owner of the mansion, clad in his gorgeous dressing gown,
and busy stuffing clothes into a portmanteau.
On the table lies an open volume of the French school
of literature—by it flutters an open note of satin paper
elegantly written in a woman's hand—and on the hearth a
refractory cigar, which Mr. Fantish has abandoned in disgust,
sends up its faint blue acrid smoke.
Mr. Fantish has nearly filled his portmanteau with all
the conveniences of a traveller, when a knock is heard at
the street door, the always wakeful servant gently opens
it; and soon a step is heard upon the stairs, and the door
of the chamber opens, giving entrance to the valiant
Captain Tarnish.
Captain Tarnish is not as elegantly made up for public
-- 352 --
[figure description] Page 352.[end figure description]
inspection, as he usually is. His neckcloth is awry—his
waistcoat gapes and shows his linen somewhat soiled—his
hair is all disordered, as if angry fingers have been plunged
into it. One thing about the captain is unchanged, however,
and is more conspicuous than ever—his boastful
swagger and supercilious look. As he enters with his
half-smoked cigar between his lips, with his red cheeks
which indicate recent and deep potations, and his eyes
surrounded with dull circles, and quite bloodshot, he is
the same swaggering, disagreeable bully, as when standing
finely dressed and `set up' with his morning draught of
brandy, at the shooting gallery.
The worthies salute each other with that nod which
passes between men who understand each other.
Then the following observations are exchanged.
Fantish, stuffing a pair of velvet slippers into a remaining
crevice of his portmanteau. Well, Tarnish, what's
stirring besides your great carcass?
Captain Tarnish. Nothing but the cards.
Fantish. The cards?
Captain Tarnish. Yes, sir, the deuced cards—they're
stirring.
Fantish, lighting a fresh cigar. Bad luck?
Captain Tarnish. Ruinous!
Fantish, with a sneering laugh. You won't listen to
me, and give them up. I tell you, cards will ruin you—
you haven't got the nerve—you drink too freely also Mon
Capitaine. You cannot resist the brandy bottle, and I
tell you again, what I have told you a thousand times
-- 353 --
[figure description] Page 353.[end figure description]
before, that brandy ruins a man who makes cards his
profession.
Captain Tarnish, sullenly. Well, that is true: but
how the devil can a man resist a glass of brandy, when he's
going his whole pile upon a card?
Fantish, lounging in a rocking chair and wrapping
his silk gown about him. Well, it is hard. But take my
advice, captain, and abandon one or the other. Playing
faro any to-night?
Captain Tarnish, with an imprecation. Yes! all the
evening.
Fantish, indifferently. Did they clean you out?
Captain Tarnish. Exactly.
Mr. Fantish burst into a fit of laughter, and leans back
in his chair to reap the full benefits of his entertainment.
Meanwhile Captain Tarnish, with a very bad grace,
mutters that it is nothing, and helps himself to another
cigar from the mantel-piece. His eye then wanders to a
side table, where a bottle stands, and going to it, he pours
out nearly a tumbler full of brandy and empties it, without
water, at a single draught.
Fantish. How is that? Good, captain? I ask you,
because you're a connoisseur in drinks. You know you
have tried the liquors of all nations—like the hero of Bon
Gaultier. Stay, here is the volume—listen. Fantish
opens the book and reads.
“Widely o'er the earth I've wandered where the drink most freely
flowed,
I have ever reeled the foremost, foremost to the beaker strode;
Deep in shady cider cellars I have dreamed o'er heavy wet,
By the fountains of Damascus I have quaffed the rich Sherbet.
-- 354 --
[figure description] Page 354.[end figure description]
Regal Montepulciano drained beneath its native rock,
On Johannis' sunny mountains, frequent hiccuped o'er my hock:
I have bathed in butts of Xeres, deeper than did e'er Monsoon.
Sangareed with bearded Tartars in the Mountains of the Moon.
In beer-swilling Copenhagen I have drank your Danesman blind;
I have kept my feet in Jena, when each bursch to earth declined.
Glass for glass in fierce Jamaica, I have shared the planters rum;
Drank with Highland dhuinie-wassels, till each gibbering Gael grew
dumb.
But a stouter, bolder drinker—one who loved his liquor more,
Never yet did I encounter than our friend upon the floor.”
“A clever fellow, Bon Gaultier—is he not?”
Captain Tarnish. Yes, I knew him in London—
lived in Grub street, and gets a penny a line.
Fantish. Really?
Captain Tarnish. Yes, sir: and has often drank
with me.
Fantish. You ought to have told him to put in the
Italian and Louisianian wines.
Captain Tarnish. What sort?
Fantish, with a sneer. Those which you drank with
your friends Labordère and Señor Bocca.
Captain Tarnish, sullenly. Well, I suppose you
don't deny that they are real people.
Fantish. Not in the least—nor your indomitable
bravery, Captain. You are a Cæsar, an Antony, a Hercules;
you have seen the whole world, and that accounts
for the perfection in drinking, which is, after all, the finest
trait in your character.
Captain Tarnish doubts whether this remark should be
received with dignity, hauteur, or anger. In consideration,
however, of the fact, that neither of these attitudes
are likely to have any effect upon one so well acquainted
-- 355 --
[figure description] Page 355.[end figure description]
with himself as Mr. Fantish, he decides upon indifference,
and says, smoking through his nose:
“Well, let us get away from drinking and books. I
hate books—”
Fantish, entertained by the oaths expressed by the above
lines and sneering. I suppose you do. Well, talk of
what pleases you.
Captain Tarnish, looking at the portmanteau. You
are going on a journey?
Fantish. Precisely, Captain.
Captain Tarnish. Where?
Fantish. Parts unknown. I am taking a leap in the
dark. There is only one objection to the move—I am
encumbered with too much baggage.
Captain Tarnish, glancing at the portmanteau again.
Too much! It's little enough.
Fantish, sneering. That is the way you take everything,
Captain—literally. You are not a logician, or you
would be acquainted with the use made of figures. By
too much baggage, I mean a woman. I am encumbered
with a woman.
Captain Tarnish. Running away with you.
Fantish. Eloping—exactly. These little affairs generally
cost the gentleman a good deal of trouble, but in
the present instance all worry and annoyance is taken off
my hands. That letter there would prove this—but
honor bright, you know, Captain—I am a man of honor!
Captain Tarnish, indifferently. Of course. And so
you go in the morning.
-- 356 --
[figure description] Page 356.[end figure description]
Fantish. In the morning early, as the ballad says.
Captain Tarnish. When do you return?
Fantish. Really can't say.
Captain Tarnish. You take things coolly. How will
you leave everything? There seems to me to be a number
of valuable articles in this room. The frame of that
picture there, over which a curtain is drawn, is itself
worth a cool hundred or two.
Fantish, with a sudden flush. No matter; I will
arrange it.
Captain Tarnish, rising, and going toward the picture.
Strange, that as many times as I have been in this room,
I never laid my eyes upon that picture, or drew back the
curtain. Is it a French affair? Let's see it.
Fantish, rising quickly, and seizing the arm stretched
out to raise the curtain. You shall not, sir!—you touch
it at your peril!
Captain Tarnish, stupefied with astonishment. What
the devil! Are you going to eat a man because he
wants to see your pictures!
Fantish, pale, and speaking in a tone scarcely audible.
I repeat, sir, that you do not raise the curtain of that picture—
that is enough, sir!
Captain Tarnish, sitting down, and smoking indifferently.
Well, that's all correct. If you won't have it
seen, you won't, I suppose—though, curse me, if I know
what it can mean.
Fantish, pale, but growing calm, and returning slowly
to his seat. It is a portrait of my mother; no one ever
-- 357 --
[figure description] Page 357.[end figure description]
touches even that curtain; and when I go, no one will
enter this room.
Captain Tarnish. You're a devil of a fellow, Fantish.
I know there's something bold about this journey—that
suits me. Come, let me into your confidence, and I may
assist you.
Fantish, regaining his sneering manner. I don't want
assistance; but if you choose, you may come to-morrow
morning to—but stay, here is a copy of my note: I
spoiled it, and wrote another. Wait! why shouldn't you
read this, first, in which the damsel asks me to “take
possession of her fate,” and disappoint a noble and
chivalric guardian who told her she was naughty for preferring
me to him. There is the letter, my dear fellow,
and you may read it, and mine, too, and come to-morrow
morning, and see how it goes.
Servant, entering silently. The driver's come, sir, to
get orders.
Fantish. Tell him to come in: and lock up everywhere.
The servant goes out; Captain Tarnish reads the note;
and Mr. Fantish, unconscious of his having carried human
baseness to the last perfection, smokes, and sneers in
silence.
So the scene ends
-- 358 -- p506-365
CHAPTER XXXI. SCENE THE SECOND.
[figure description] Page 358.[end figure description]
Seated upon the sofa, in her chamber, Miss Incledon,
while Captain Tarnish reads her note, leans her fine head
upon her hand, and ponders.
Her figure is enveloped in a loose robe, which conceals
a complete travelling dress, and looking intently into the
fire, her gracefully curved eyebrows meet together in the
middle, and her gaze is almost wild in its intense excitement.
Peeping from the fringed edge of the counterpane behind
her, is visible, the corner of a small travelling trunk,
of yellow leather, such as are carried in the hand by both
handles, fixed upon the side.
Midnight has passed, and her candle burns low, spattering
the silver candlestick with the hard, white spermaceti—
which is, nevertheless, unheeded, as it patters, drop
after drop, in the deep silence of the night.
The young woman's head bends lower, and her large,
white arm, upon which a golden bracelet is clasped, seems
scarcely able to support the weight imposed upon it.
The red firelight streams upon the woman's figure, and
every detail of her appearance is made visible—almost
painfully so.
She remains silent for a long time, then, with a cold
smile, her brows relax; and she raises her proud eyes, in
which the expression of haughty triumph is unmistakeable.
-- 359 --
[figure description] Page 359.[end figure description]
“He thought to force me to bend to him!” she murmurs,
clenching her hand, “he thought that I would suffer
him to watch and spy, and sneak, and find out everything
about me, and then make me obey him as his slave!
Fool! he did not know, with all his boasted knowledge
of life and books, that one wronged woman is a match for
a hundred men! My guardian, forsooth! a pretty
guardian, that wished to make love to his ward, and go
back home, and say, `I have performed my part so well,
that I have got my ward an excellent husband! Oh, yes!
excellent! He would have made me an excellent husband,
no doubt! `My dear, have you seen the theological
work I have been reading?'—`My love, don't you think
it would be best to go to fewer parties, and not waltz so
much?'—`Sil—vi—a! I am afraid you are sadly given to
the vanities of life—you think too much of this world!'
How I hate him!”
And resuming with these words her bitter and scornful
tone, which she had dropped to assume, with the case of
a great actress, Mr. Incledon's mild manner, she clenched
her beautiful hand more tightly and frowned again.
“So he thought to marry me, did he!” she continued,
“he thought to wheedle, and cajole, and trick me into
accepting him! And when I chose to exercise my right
of choosing freely, he must shake his head forsooth! and
say I am running into danger! How I despise him!”
And she tosses her head and curls her lip with such
derision, that her beautiful countenance grows painfully
repulsive. As she speaks, a door opens on the passage
-- 360 --
[figure description] Page 360.[end figure description]
leading by her chamber, and a step is heard approaching
her apartment.
Miss Incledon starts from her seat—springs to the
mantel-piece, and extinguishes the light; and then falls
back upon the sofa, covering her travelling dress with the
robe.
She has scarcely finished these preparations when the
door opens, and an elderly lady enters, smiling. She
wears a loose, evening robe, in which she has been attending
to her household matters, and carries on her arm a
basket of keys. This is Mrs. Incledon, the young woman's
aunt, and she says in a kind voice:
“What, Silvia? are you awake yet? You 'll spoil
your roses, my daughter.”
Silvia, repressing a tumultuous throbbing at her heart
with one hand, while she rubs her eyes with the other. Yes,
Aunt Fanny—I am afraid I will—but really that novel
there is so attractive that it kept me up until now—and I
have just blown out my candle.
Aunt Fanny, pressing down a lump of coal upon the
fire for safety. What novel, Silvia? Ah! that is a great
waste of time, and calculated to injure many persons.
What is it?
Silvia. The “Mysteries of Paris.”
Aunt Fanny, shaking her head. I have heard that
these French works are not what they should be.
Silvia. They are so horrible, Aunt Fanny; but have
you been down stairs again, since you came up.
Aunt Fanny. Yes; I had a jar of pickles to see to
which I forgot, and it has kept me busy for an hour.
-- 361 --
[figure description] Page 361.[end figure description]
Silvia. I hope you will have a good night's rest;—I
do always—I have everything so comfortable.
Aunt Fanny, looking around with pride. Yes, I
arranged everything myself. But what is that yonder—
your trunk?
Silvia, hastily. Oh, yes!—I ought to have put it in
the closet with my larger one.
Aunt Fanny, going to the trunk and pulling it out.
These are very convenient, are they not, for—why, it is
packed!
Silvia, with her hand upon her heart. Some things I
thought I should n't have any use for until I set out to
return.
Aunt Fanny. Ah! you young women! You have a
thousand things which were not allowed us when we were
young. Let me see what you have stuffed in there.
Where is the key?
Silvia, in a voice scarcely audible. The key?
Aunt Fanny. Yes, I want to see the arrangements
of the trunk inside—I may want one.
Silvia. I don't think—I hardly know—it 's somewhere—
to-morrow I will—
Aunt Fanny. Never mind. Do not trouble yourself.
Silvia, regaining her voice. Oh, it 's no trouble, aunt;
you may have that trunk, as you say you like it I really
don't want it.
Aunt Fanny. Don't you? Well, I think I will borrow
it for my visit to sister Jane, in two or three days. I
will take it now, and you shall come and unpack it.
Silvia, darting towards the trunk. No! don't take it!
-- 362 --
[figure description] Page 362.[end figure description]
Aunt Fanny, in astonishment. You frighten me,
child. Why, who would have thought?—well, well! this
is a strange generation.
Silvia, smiling on her as she rises and is going. You
mus'nt mind my folly, Aunt Fanny.
Aunt Fanny. Oh, it 's nothing, daughter. Come, go
to bed—why, what is that you have on? Your pearl-colored
travelling dress!
Silvia, nearly fainting, but gathering courage immediately.
Yes, ma'am, I thought I 'd see how it looked,
and put it on this evening—and I haven't taken it off yet.
Aunt Fanny. How odd you are!
Silvia, turning pale and murmuring inaudibly. How
base, and false, and miserable I am!
Aunt Fanny. What did you say, my daughter?
Silvia, covering her face. Nothing, Aunt Fanny. Do
you love me, Aunt—oh, can you love me?”
Aunt Fanny, astounded at this outburst. Certainly, I
do, child! What on earth can you mean?
Silvia, suppressing a rising sob. I mean, Aunt, that I
am not strong like you—and that some day I may commit
something which would not seem right to you. You
would not think hardly of me, if I did—at least you
would forgive me; would'nt you, Aunt?
Aunt Fanny, in deepest astonishment. Forgiveness is
a bounden duty, Silvia. If one be overtaken in a fault,
restore such an one in the spirit of meekness. I read that
in my Bible, and I try to make the Bible my rule of conduct.
Silvia, growing calmer. Well, Aunt Fanny, when you
-- 363 --
[figure description] Page 363.[end figure description]
write home—if you write before I do—give my deepest
love to every one, and say that I would have written, only
I am in such a whirl.
Aunt Fanny, completely stupefied by the confusion and
want of connection in Silvia's discourse. Certainly, I will,
daughter. But Ralph writes to Runland, and they know
all about you and your doings.
Silvia, with wide eyes—they know?
Aunt Fanny.—Why, assuredly, it is Ralph's place
when he writes, to tell them especially of you—that you
are well and happy and enjoying yourself. What more
natural?
Silvia, in a murmur. Yes—very natural.
Aunt Fanny, counting her keys. Ralph is very fond of
you.
Silvia. Is he?
Aunt Fanny, looking for the key of the tea caddie.
Yes, he ought to be proud of his guardianship, over such
a brilliant young lady, as Miss Silvia. You ought to follow
Ralph's suggestions in everything, daughter; he is one
of the most intelligent and high-minded young men I ever
met in all my life—and if you wished to do one thing, and
he wished another, it would be better for you follow his
suggestions than your own.
Silvia, with a cloud upon her face. I do not think so!
That is, I mean, there may be things—but I am keeping
you up, Aunt.
Aunnt Fanny, pouncing upon the key and easy in her
mind again. Yes, so you are: good night
Silvia. Good night, ma'am.
-- 364 -- p506-371
[figure description] Page 364.[end figure description]
Aunt Fanny, closing the doors and disappearing. Pleasant
dreams!
Silvia, rising and looking after her with a frown. If
that man's name had not been uttered, I might have
yielded to this silly regret at leaving a house where I have
been treated kindly. But that name has steeled me—I
am resolute again. He thought to choose my husband,
did he! Fool! I foiled him with his own sickening
mildness. Yes, I am once more determined; and not all
the `intelligent and high-minded' Mr. Incledons in the
world shall drive me from my purpose One!—so late; I
will soon hear the signal!
And Miss Incledon resumes her seat, and gazes again
into the fire, with her brows joined together into the “bar
of Michael Angelo.”
The stroke of one! dies away, and all is silent.
CHAPTER XXXII. SCENE THIRD AND LAST.
Mr. Incledon—stirring the fire, and pointing to a
cigar, which Mr. Sansoucy refuses with a shake of his head.
But you are wrong, Ernest. The human intellect has
something of the Divine in its grandest manifestations—
but its powers are circumscribed. What you allege would
make a man more than human.
Mr. Sansoucy, with an argumentative movement of his
hand. Not at all. It is only an act which long training has
perfected the student in. Look at Kean. Did you ever
see him?
-- 365 --
[figure description] Page 365.[end figure description]
Incledon. No.
Sansoucy. I did once, in London, just when he retired.
If you had seen him, you would not dispute, what I say.
Yes, Ralph! There are men born with such a ductility
of mind and feature, that they end by believing themselves
really the characters they act. You should have seen
Edmund Kean in Richard. A fiery little devil—so to
speak—blustering his words out, scowling, and with every
muscle swollen with passion: no, he thought himself really
Richard—and on the night I saw him, he was as near
killing the unfortunate Richmond, whose rôle, you know,
is to lay the proud usurper low, as a man can come without
actually running his adversary through.
Incledon And that proves—?
Sansoucy. Simply one thing. That certain natures
are gifted with this extraordinery genius, which enables
them to throw themselves into a part, and forget their own
identity. This end once reached, they ride upon the whirlwind
of art and direct it. It is more than the keenest eye
can see—the fact that all they utter has been gotten by
heart—that every gesture is the result of previous arrangement—
that they are only acting. Think of the stories of
Garrick, Mrs. Siddons, Miss O'Neil, and Kemble.—
Incledon, smiling. You knock me down with names.
Sansoucy. They are high authority, and present
powerful illustrations.
Incledon. Well, possibly.
Sansoucy, gratified at having triumphed. Look even at
Macready. Did you see him in Macbeth? You have
-- 366 --
[figure description] Page 366.[end figure description]
seen him? Well, do you recollect the great `dagger scene,'
as my friends the actors call it in their jargon? In that
scene I defy any one to see the actor's terror-stricken
features, his brow bathed in sweat, his hands clutching at
the air, without looking for the dagger, even as he looks.
Incledon. Very well.
Sansoucy. Well, what does that prove Mr. Logician?
Simply this, that the actor feels that he is not Mr. Macready,
but the Thane of Caudor—and as a consequence
of that belief, and the further conviction that he is going
to murder the sleeping king—actually feels that there is
an air-drawn dagger, and expresses that feeling in his eyes,
and makes you look for what he evidently sees—Q. E. D.
You are wrong and I am right.
Incledon, smiling at his friend's good humored air of
triumph. Well, you may be, but still I believe that such
ductility of imagination is given to but one man in a
million—scarcely ever to a woman.
Sansoucy, quickly. Oftener to women than to men.
Incledon. I don't believe it.
Sansoucy. That's because you are as obstinate as a
block of granite. Women, Ralph, have this impressibility
of temperament a thousand fold more fully than men.
Where one man is a great actor, a hundred women might
be great actresses. And do not think that this is a cynical
speech on my part. Not at all. I yield to no man in
chivalrie feeling toward woman, and I bow before a little
girl even, for she is purer and more innocent than I am.
But the fact remains. Believe me, Ralph, there are
greater actresses in private life than on the stage.
-- 367 --
[figure description] Page 367.[end figure description]
Incledon. What a cynic!
Sansoucy. Just as I expected. A man cannot look at
woman, as they are, and say, `This is good—that bad,'
without having some such speech made to him. You are
to think them angels, on penalty of being branded as a
woman hater! Very well! that shan't affect me in the least.
I will go on as I always have gone on, honoring women for
a thousand qualities far nobler than the same in men—
endurance, disinterestedness, tenderness, and devotion—I
shall go on attributing all this to women, my dear Ralph;
but I will not take back what I have said, that half the
women a man meets have smiles and tears, and frowns
and tenderness as much at their command, as the keys of
the pianos which their fingers play on without effort!
Incledon, thinking of Silvia and frowning. Very well—
that's just what I expected, Ernest. Take care you never
find out the truth of what I say. There's Aurelia. Tell
me is she an actress?
Sansoucy, sighing. Really I haven't made up my mind;
but who knows? Ah, my dear Ralph! the fact is that
my philosophy is a very dangerous one, and has too fine
an edge to apply practically—like a razor used to cut
open the leaves of a book, it is too keen, and runs out of
its track—and slash! there's your fine copy, with its steel
engravings sliced in two! But let us dismiss the subject,
or I will recant all I have said!
Incledon. Willingly.
Sansoucy, rising. Well, I am going. No, I can't
stay. I have a thousand things to do in the morning,
besides a visit to my little friend, Ellie, to pay.
-- 368 --
[figure description] Page 368.[end figure description]
Goodnight: come and see me, to-morrow. I shall have from
twelve until dinner on my hands. You will come?
Incledon. Willingly, again.
Sansoucy, disappearing wrapped to the eyes in his
overcoat. Good-night.
Incledon, gazing after him. A mind rioting in discussion!—
but all editors have just such characters. I
suppose it becomes habit with them—and they take pride
in their skill at dialectics. He is half right about actors
and their capabilities, no doubt—but doubt a young girl
like Silvia! Impossible: my faith in woman, which I
cling to as my treasure and blessing, only second to my
faith in a higher than all earthly things, would leave me—
I should doubt the earth I tread on—I should sicken
at the thought of living in a world so poor and mean!
Grant, O my God, as I raise my eyes solemnly to thee
and yield my heart to thee as a little child—naked, and
poor, and humble, but with faith and trust—grant, O my
God and Father, that I may not lose my treasure, even
my faith in human nature—in the beings whom I am
thrown with—whom I love—and loving cannot look
upon as wholly base, and fallen and untouched with the
sublime light of heaven!”
-- 369 -- p506-376
CHAPTER XXXIII. THE ELOPEMENT.
[figure description] Page 369.[end figure description]
We have given at length all the details of the interviews
between the three personages who played the chief
part in this contest of passion and principle; and this was
necessary, in order to convey a clear impression of the
relative positions occupied by each.
We shall now be able to speak more briefly of the
events which followed the scenes we have described.
Morning came slowly and gloomily: and where a red
streak in the East would, on a clear day, have gone
before the dawn, a faint, dubious half-mist tint scarcely
made any impression on the darkness.
It was one of those mornings when the world seems to
be buried inextricably in a sea of fog; when the eye
pierces scarcely six feet from the spot on which a man
stands:—and when the idea of anything like sunlight
ever again, appears wholly ridiculous.
In a word, the city was enveloped in one of the heaviest
fogs which had ever descended upon it; and the early
wayfarers resembled spectres as they glided onward.
Among these spectres were two who made a low signal
before a house, in an upper chamber of which a faint
sheen of fire light was visible, flickering on the curtains,
These figures were those of men, wrapped in cloaks,
and in spite of the deserted state of the streets, they drew
down over their brows their hats with wide rims, and
seemed to await the answer of their signal with impatience.
-- 370 --
[figure description] Page 370.[end figure description]
It soon came. The window of the room in which the
faint light flickered, was cautiously raised, and a woman's
head was thrust out into the biting air.
The low whistle was repeated, and the window immediately
descended.
In five minutes the door of the house opened noiselessly,
and the woman, carrying her small trunk with
difficulty, issued forth, and hastened toward the men.
“Who is that?” she whispered, looking at one of the
men, as she placed her hand in that of the other.
“A friend, Silvia—come, we are too late.”
And taking the trunk in his hand, he gave it to his
companion, and followed with the lady.
In five minutes they reached a carriage standing at the
corner of the street, and all got into it.
“Whip your horses, and be out of town in fifteen
minutes, and I promise you double pay!” said Mr. Fantish
to the driver.
“Yes, sir!”
And mounting to his seat the driver flourished his
whip, and laid the lash at one stroke over the backs of
both horses.
They jumped in the traces half-reared, and starting
forward over the slippery street, went onward at a pace
hazardous in the extreme.
Three squares from the point at which they had
stopped, Mr. Fantish found the carriage going slower.
“What is the matter?” he said.
“The matter, sir?”
“Yes! you are crawling.”
-- 371 --
[figure description] Page 371.[end figure description]
“We're goin' down hill here, sir, and the ground's
covered with ice.”
“Ice!”
“Like a pond, sir.”
“No matter! take the chances! There is sunrise
coming.”
“They'll slip here, sir!”
“Take the chances!—double pay at any rate!”
“Very good, sir!”
And the driver struck his horses with his whip, and
drove them into a gallop.
It was a suicidal act. No sooner had they entered
fairly upon the descent, than striking with their smoothshod
hoofs the slippery surface, they both fell, almost at
the same moment, snapping, in their descent, the pole of
the carriage.
It fell nearly over on its side, and bursting open the
door, Mr. Fantish dragged out Miss Silvia, and—found
himself standing within two feet of Mr. Incledon.
Mr. Incledon, by one of those providences which seem,
at times, to interpose themselves in the way of the most
deeply-laid schemes, had reached the spot where the
carriage stopped, just when the fugitives reached it.
Accustomed in the country to rise at daylight, make his
own fire, and prosecute his studies or walk out, he had
brought this habit with him to the city—and had thus
been thrown in contact with the fugitives, scarcely a hundred
yards from his own door, from which he had just
issued.
For a moment the adversaries stood facing each other
-- 372 --
[figure description] Page 372.[end figure description]
with a look of stupefaction which they could not repress
or resist.
Mr. Incledon was the first to recover his presence of
mind. He understood all at a glance; and advancing
straight upon Mr. Fantish, he caught him by the throat,
and exerting his great strength, threw him backward
toward the half-overturned carriage.
The attack was so sudden that Mr. Fantish was wholly
unable to resist it; and the blood rushed to his eyes so
powerfully under Mr. Incledon's clutch, that he nearly fell
back as with vertigo.
Mr. Incledon turned just in time to avoid a blow from
Captain Tarnish's bowie-knife—a weapon which that
gentleman never went unprovided with.
This was the position of affairs—the two men were just
about to throw themselves upon their single opponent,
when, in spite of their rage, they paused and drew back.
Coming round the nearest corner, a party of the nightwatch,
returning to their homes after service, were seen;
and the fact of their appearance had a sudden and powerful
effect upon Captain Tarnish.
His knife disappeared—he assumed an innocent and
highly respectable air; and raised his finger silently to
Mr. Fantish.
“Not now,” he whispered.
“Why not now?” gasped Mr. Fantish, pale with rage.
“A prosecution!”
And Captain Tarnish's very blood seemed to curdle at
the word.
“Well, very well—you are right,” was the reply, in a
-- 373 --
[figure description] Page 373.[end figure description]
tone of concentrated rage; “besides the ridicule—in a
moment we shall be surrounded.”
“It 's broad day.”
“Yes.”
And turning to Mr. Incledon, Mr. Fantish went up to
that gentleman, and, bending to his ear, hissed rather than
said, with his pale lips:
“You shall hear from me, sir! We have not done with
each other! I will kill you like a dog, sir, as surely as I
live!”
Having made this personal communication, Mr. Fantish
stood for a moment gasping with that rage he dared not
give way to, threw a last glance upon Miss Incledon, and
uttering a deep curse, turned to depart.
“My pay!” cried the driver, in despair.
“There, rascal!”
And he threw a gold piece of large value to him.
“Thankee, sir—that 'll mend all.”
But Mr. Fantish had disappeared in the fog.
Mr. Incledon was left alone with Silvia, who stood
haughtily upon the pavement, from which she had not
moved. As to the driver, he paid no attention to him,
and the horses and broken carriage soon disappeared.
Mr. Incledon looked for a moment at the young woman
with a countenance as pale as death—trembled visibly—
and tried vainly to utter a word.
“You need say nothing, sir!” she said, in a tone of the
coldest self-possession. “Your voice is not so agreeable
to me, sir, that I wish to hear it at the present moment!
Coward that you are, sir, to thus persecute a woman!”
-- 374 -- p506-381
[figure description] Page 374.[end figure description]
He looked at her still with the same deep emotion—
uttered a cruel groan, which even his great self-control
could not repress—and then advancing to her, said:
“Come back! Oh, come back, Silvia!—poor child!
poor, erring and unhappy child! Come home with me!”
And, covering his face, he was silent.
She slowly went with him—and thus they regained the
house. He had promised not to speak of what had
occurred—she had promised to return home with him on
the following morning.
CHAPTER XXXIV. HOW A WOMAN WAS TREATED BY A MAN.
Going back to his room, Mr. Incledon sat down, and
leaned his head upon his hand, and groaned.
Then what his friend had said was true! Then after
all, human nature—woman's nature—was essentially corrupt:
unworthy of all trust, and in its fairest showiness,
false and miserable!
All his beautiful dreams of human truth and purity
were chimeras—he had placed his faith in what was rotten
and crumbling—suspicion, hatred and contempt, must
henceforth fill his bosom, however it might yearn to feel
toward those around him, love and confidence.
The dreadful effect produced upon this man's heart, by
the cruel blow of the woman who had so basely deceived
-- 375 --
[figure description] Page 375.[end figure description]
him, showed itself plainly in his pale countenance—and in
the bitter moan which issued from his lips.
“Falsehood!” he murmured, “terrible falsehood! Can
it be? Falsehood in lip and eye, falsehood in voice and
manner, falsehood in smile and sigh, and word and
deed!—nothing but one gigantic falsehood!—which has
darkened everything before me, made me sour and bitter
and incredulous of all I see and hear, and meet—the very
air seems tainted with it!—pah! it sickens me!”
And shuddering, he crouched lower, and was silent.
In the depth of his soul there then commenced one of
those struggles, only known to men who possess powerful
impulses, vast strength of organization, and extreme sensibility.
For a time he uttered no sound, but remained
thus pale and overwhelmed with the thoughts which battled
in his bosom for the mastery.
He remained silent thus for nearly an hour, his face
still covered, his head bent down.
Then his head rose, and two tears moistened his fiery
eyes—tears that would not have bent a violet, but falling
on this woman's shoulders, should have weighed upon her
heavier than the rocks hurled on the Titans, crushing her
with agony, repentance, and remorse.
The struggle, as far as it referred to her, was ended.
“Poor child!” he murmured, in a tone of infinite pity,
“poor child, misled by passion, wrath, and evil!—I will
not judge her, though her act wrecks my faith and trust,
and confidence in woman, the purest as I thought, and
now, proved full of falsehood! Oh, Silvia! Silvia! the
woman who thus makes an honest gentleman turn with
-- 376 --
[figure description] Page 376.[end figure description]
horror and fear from all her sex, assumes a terrible responsibility.
But it is not for me to judge—my simple
duty is before me, and that I will do.”
And rising, he passed his hand across his hrow, and
leaning his elbow on the mantel-piece, murmured:
“O! my God grant pardon to this woman: I have
pardoned her!”
A moment's silence, a moment's prayer, sufficed to
make him calm again:—and summoning his servant, he
directed him to send any one who came to see him to Mr.
Sansoucy's office, whither he was going.
This caution referred simply to an expected call from a
gentleman on some ordinary and unimportant business:—
but it was instrumental, in no slight degree, in bringing
on the events which followed, as the reader will perceive.
Half an hour after Mr. Incledon's departure, Captain
Tarnish presented himself at the door, and asked the
servant for his master.
Mr. Incledon had gone out, the servant informed him,
and had left word that he might be found at Mr. Sansoucy's
office.
Captain Tarnish, who was clad in the most superb suit,
and whose mustaches—assisted by Macassar—curled ferociously
toward his eyes, received this intimation with a
scowl, and for an instant hesitated, looking at a note he
held daintily in his purple kid-covered fingers.
“Your master is a sneak, you rascal!” said the valiant
gentleman at last, conceiving this a happy expedient for
discharging all his pent-up dissatisfaction. Yes, a sneak!
and you may tell him so! I'd tell him so, if he was here—
-- 377 -- p506-384
[figure description] Page 377.[end figure description]
I would! Don't look at me, you rascal, as if I would be
afraid! Try it again, and I'll cane you!”.
This address was so terrible that the negro's eyes, which
really had been full of the expression attributed to them
by Captain Tarnish, sank before him, and the worthy
triumphed.
He inserted the note into the breast-pocket of his surtout—
scowled generally at the apartment, and so took his
departure—not without hesitating, however, whether it
would be advisable to call at Mr. Sansoucy's room with
hostile views.
Recollecting speedily the fact, however, that Mr. Fantish
would probably “lend” him a good round sum for his
assistance; and that there was nothing absolutely calculated
to endanger his person in the visit, Captain Tarnish
assumed his most noble swagger, and with haughty mien
strode down the street toward the residence of Mr.
Sansoucy.
CHAPTER XXXV. HOW CAPTAIN TARNISH CAME TO AND WENT FROM MR. SANSOUCY'S OFFICE.
Sansoucy was just finishing his morning task when his
friend entered; and without raising his eyes, said, smiling:
“Good morning, Ralph—I knew your step—sit down
Another paragraph and I am done.”
-- 378 --
[figure description] Page 378.[end figure description]
Mr. Incledon sat down; and for some moments the
swift pen of the journalist glided over the yellow slip before
him, making only that slight scratching which accompanies
the best goose quill.
“There!” he cried, suddenly, “I'm done! The cause
of freedom has advanced a mighty league by that production!—
as my brother editor and compeer Jefferson Brick
would say. How singular, Ralph,” he added, holding out
his hand, which was cordially pressed, “how singular that
Mr. Dickens should believe there is no intelligence or
honesty or fairness in American editors! I think the
journalists of this Republic are much before even the
English, in the greatest and truest elements of their profession:
and I think this is plainly the result of what the
English scoff at and despise as an enormity—our free
atmosphere and youth and vigor as a nation! Old England
scowls at Young America!—but, Ralph, your brow is
clouded—here I am thrusting politics for ever on you,
and—you are troubled about something!”
And Sansoucy gazed at his friend more attentively.
“I am in indifferent spirits this morning, Ernest,” was
Mr. Incledon's reply, “and I don't think I should tell
even you the cause of it. Don't ask me.”
“The cause of it? Not tell me!”
“I cannot.”
Sansoucy looked at his friend for a moment with great
surprise: then nodding, replied:
“Well, Ralph! Then I ask no questions—but your
visit is with some definite purpose, more than—”
“Simply friendly? Yes.”
-- 379 --
[figure description] Page 379.[end figure description]
And Mr. Incledon sighed.
“I leave town in the morning for a short time,” he said,
and I wish you to take charge of all the duties which we
share—you understand me.”
“Perfectly—up yonder.”
“Yes—it is double labor, but I will soon return.”
“Very well—I ask no questions and I acquiesce without
a word. But what in the world could have—there it
is! Pardon me, Ralph: I'm a journalist, and in my
quality as such, have a mania for procuring the `latest
intelligence' with full details. But my mouth is sealed.
And Mr. Sansoucy fixed his lips firmly, as if determined
to preserve his character for resolution, and forbearance.
“It would scarcely interest you, Ernest—the reason for
my dullness, and my departure,” said Mr. Incledon, “and
I have no right to tell even you.”
“Perfectly satisfactory.”
“To another person I would not even say as much—it
is not my affair. Enough.”
“A thousand times enough, Ralph—and now say no
more about it. I hate your model friend who insists upon
having your bosom laid open before him, with its thoughts,
intentions, feelings, perhaps even its sufferings all patent.
There are things we do not whisper even to our wives,”
said Mr. Sansoucy, wishing to divert his friend from his
low spirits, by a jest, “and faith! I don't think it a bad
rule to tell them nothing—when we have wives!”
And having thus given a cheerful turn to the conversation,
Mr. Sansoucy, with that good humor which was like
-- 380 --
[figure description] Page 380.[end figure description]
a cordial in its effects upon his friends, took up a journal
and folded it conveniently to read a number of the
“Lorgnette,” which was published in its columns.
He had just fixed himself to read aloud one of the
admirable passages of that entertaining serial, when a
noisy step was heard ascending the stairs, and soon a
knock came at the door—a knock full of dignity and
authority and swagger—if the things are compatible.
“Enter!” said Mr. Sansouey, with the air of a man
who utters the word, frequently.
The door opened, and the worthy Captain Tarnish
made his appearanee.
Captain Tarnish looked even more splendid and martial
than before: his chin was higher in the air: his hat was
more on one side of his head: his boots seemed glossier,
and his hat: his nose was elevated at an angle which
expressed the consciousness upon its owner's part of a
great mission, not without some danger, which he intended
to swagger through the performance of, as impressively as
possible.
“Good morning, Captain Tarnish,” said Mr. Sansoucy,
bowing but holding his hand behind his back—“walk in,
sir.”
“Thank, you, sir,” said Captain Tarnish, grandly.
And looking at Mr. Incledon, he said:
“I believe I have a communication for you, sir!”
“For me, sir?” said that gentleman, coldly.
“Yes, sir—I believe your name is Incledon.”
“It is, sir.”
“Then I have this note for you, sir.”
-- 381 --
[figure description] Page 381.[end figure description]
And Captain Tarnish extracted from the breast-pocket,
where he had deposited it, as we have said, the note which
he had held between his—large-sized—kid-gloved fingers,
when we met him at the residence of the gentleman to
whom it was addressed.
“This is it, sir,” said Captain Tarnish, advancing two
steps with a martial swagger; “I'll wait for an answer,
and a reference to your friend, sir!”
Mr. Incledon took the note calmly and coolly, gazed
for a moment at Captain Tarnish, in a way which evidently
rendered that worthy ill at ease, and said:
“What does this note contain, sir, and from whom is it?”
“You will see by opening it, sir,” replied Captain Tarnish,
with his hand upon his hip, and straightening his
shoulders.
Mr. Incledon opened the note and read the following
words:
“Thursday Morning.
“Sir: You were guilty of an offence and an insult toward
me this morning, which your blood or my own will answer.
I told you as much, and I now repeat, that nothing but
the amplest satisfaction will suffice. You shall learn, sir,
that I am not to be thwarted with impunity—and Captain
Tarnish, the bearer of this note, will make the arrangements
for the meeting. Should you refuse, as I expect, I
will publish your name as coward! coward! coward!
mark me, sir!
“I have the honor to be
“Your most obed't serv't,
“Mr. R. Incledon. “A. Fantish.”
-- 382 --
[figure description] Page 382.[end figure description]
Mr. Incledon read the note quite calmly, and then
stretching out the hand which held it, said:
“You may take this back, sir, to the source it issued
from.”
“Take it back!” cried Captain Tarnish, with his most
terrible frown.
“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Incledon, gazing serenely into the
Captain's face.
“Take what back!” said Sansoucy, reaching out his
hand and grasping the letter.
“A note from Mr. Fantish, the younger.”
And Mr. Incledon placed the billet in his friend's hand.
Mr. Sansoucy ran his eye over it rapidly, and frowning,
said:
“A challenge!”
“Yes! a challenge, sir,” said Captain Tarnish, precisely,
sir! a challenge, sir, to fight a duel, sir!”
And never had the Captain looked more terrible and
annihilating. Homer would have said that direful war
was shaken from his locks, and in his eyes rolled death,
and blood, and carnage.
“A challenge,” said Mr. Incledon, calmly and coldly:
which I refuse, sir. Go back to your friend, and tell him
as much.”
“Refuse, sir?” said the Captain, in a blustering tone.
“Yes, sir—refuse.”
“Would you be good enough to place your refusal
upon paper?”
“Why, sir?”
“I prefer it.”
-- 383 --
[figure description] Page 383.[end figure description]
“I do not wish to insult you, sir,” Mr. Incledon said,
“but doubtless your friend can trust to your word.”
“Trust, sir!” cried the Captain, who construed Mr.
Incledon's calmness into a desire to escape any altercation—
and so found his courage immensely increased
thereby: “trust, sir! I would have you remember, sir,
that I am not in the habit of allowing—”
“Well, sir—then you can't have any objection to my
sending Mr. Fantish my reply by you,” said Mr. Incledon,
calmly. “You may tell him, sir, that I refuse his
defiance upon two separate grounds. First, that I do
not recognize the right of any man to force me into the
field of honor—as I believe your phrase is, sir; and
secondly, that if I went thither, I should select some other
adversary than Mr. Fantish. Yes, sir,” added Mr.
Incledon, yielding for a moment to his old excitability:
“I request you to inform your friend, distinctly, that I do
not recognize his right to place himself upon my level—
or the level of any honorable man; and if he attacks my
good name, I will chastise him!”
“Sir,” cried Captain Tarnish.
“But this is wrong,” muttered Mr. Incledon, who had
scarcely heard the Captain's interjection; “this is unnecessary,
and a mere giving way to passion. Tell your
friend, Mr. Fantish, sir,” he said aloud and quite calmly:
that I will not go to fight with him—that I do not look
upon the pistol as my umpire—that his note is sent back
to him, as if I had never read it.”
And Mr. Incledon inclined his head with great dignity,
and turned away.
-- 384 --
[figure description] Page 384.[end figure description]
“Sir!” said Captain Tarnish, who was now more than
ever confirmed in his views of Mr. Incledon's courage:
“sir! I am not to be received and treated thus!”
“You, sir!”
And Mr. Incledon wheeled round with a contempt,
which, however, disappeared in a moment, before his
great self-control.
“I have no quarrel with yourself,” he added, calmly,
sitting down; “let us part in peace, sir.”
“Nor any with my friend, it seems, sir!” said Captain
Tarnish, preparing to launch a parting swagger at his
opponent.
“Not of this description,” Mr. Incledon said, as
calmly.
“Well, sir! all I have to say is, that I do not permit
myself to be treated thus with insult!” said Captain
Tarnish, rising on his heels, and scowling terribly.
“I intend none, sir,” Mr. Incledon said, with a manifest
struggle, and a successful one, to resist any rising
anger.
“You give it, though, sir.”
“I am sorry.”
“Recollect, sir!” cried the Captain, curling his mustaches,
and inspired with terrific ferocity by his opponent's
mildness: “recollect, sir! that I am Captain Tarnish,
and when I come—”
“You know the way back again! Is that your meaning,
Captain Tarnish?” said Mr. Sansoncy, interposing
in the colloquy, and confronting him
“Sir! my meaning?”
-- 385 --
[figure description] Page 385.[end figure description]
“My meaning, Captain Tarnish,” said Sansoucy, who
began to flush: “is simply this, sir—that if you are
ignorant of the way back, I will show it to you!”
And Mr. Sansoucy advanced two steps toward the
Captain, in a way so threatening, that his adversary
unconsciously drew back.
“Yes, sir!” said Mr. Sansoucy, carried away by rage:
“you shall not vent your miserable threats here upon a
gentleman, who only spares you from contempt! You
shall not make the atmosphere of my apartment foul with
your swaggering, and bluster, and Dutch courage! I say
again, sir, and I say it so distinctly that you shall not
misunderstand it, or affect to—that unless you immediately
descend those steps, sir, I will send your carcass
down them in a way you will not relish!”
And giving way to that indignation which he had for
some time curbed, Mr. Sansoucy advanced upon Captain
Tarnish with the evident intention of immediately effecting
what he had threatened to do.
Let us not think too harshly of the worthy Captain for
his conduct under the circumstances. Perhaps the philosophers
will explain, some day, the modus by which lofty
courage, like a machine overstrained, collapses and is useless
to the engineer, precisely because pushed to an undue
action.
It could scarcely be expected that Captain Tarnish
should lay in a stock of heroism sufficient not only to
carry him grandly through so trying an interview, but to
hold out through a physical and personal contest afterwards.
-- 386 -- p506-393
[figure description] Page 386.[end figure description]
It thus happened, that when Mr. Sansoucy, with the
most brilliant and earnest expression in his eyes, advanced
quickly in the direction of the Captain, that gentleman
muttered an indistinct and bitter curse, clutched nervously
his stick, and going from the apartment slammed the door,
and went away down the steps—in the natural and
agreeable manner customary with him, and the rest of his
species.
Sansoucy gazed for a moment at the door which separated
him from his adversary; curled his lip with an
elaboration which was powerfully expressive, and then
turning to his friend, said coolly:
“What a miserable feeling it must be, to boast and
swagger, bluster and utter threats, and then to sneak away,
and hide the head, and disappear, like this man!”
CHAPTER XXXVI. WHAT TOOK PLACE AT THE SHOOTING GALLERY.
Of the conversation that followed this scene, between
the two friends, left thus to themselves, we need not speak;
our history, which aims to present results, does not demand
a repetition of these details here.
It naturally turned—the colloquy of the friends—upon
the subject which had so suddenly thrust itself upon their
attention; and gradually passing from a consideration of
the actual circumstances, Mr. Incledon and his friend
-- 387 --
[figure description] Page 387.[end figure description]
discussed that problem of modern times—duelling—in all its
branches.
The reader will thus perceive that we omit nothing
necessary to the comprehension of the history, in forbearing
to follow the conversation. Abstract discussions are
scarcely entertaining, and so the conversation of the
friends is spared the reader.
But still, before proceeding with the events which
followed, it may be permitted to a solitary writer to
express his thoughts upon this subject, in a few brief
words—to say that, in his own opinion, what the age calls
its code of honor is pitiable, irrational, and bloody—that
duelling, in all its ramifications, under any circumstances,
is as ludicrous, and pitiable, an inconsequence, as any
prejudice by which the minds and actions of men ever have
been led, and governed, and enslaved. In the middle
ages—with the sword at the side, the leg in the saddle—
the highway or the street filled with two classes only,
friends and enemies—then there was something to be said
in support of the single combat; when often it was
reduced to your own life or your enemy's, your own sword
through his heart, or his through your own—in a word,
self-defence or death. There was then something rational
in the clashing of two swords, the breast to breast conflict—
and the rationality remains with men, thrown in a
similar attitude, to-day. But to perpetuate that bloody
fashion of a faulty past—to force into the calm flow of the
nineteenth century, the weakness and failing of the ninth—
to declare that a tone of the voice, a word hastily uttered,
a breach of etiquette, even, shall make it necessary for an
-- 388 --
[figure description] Page 388.[end figure description]
honorable gentleman to go in cold blood to a distant
place, and take his adversary's life or yield up his own—
this is the ludicrous and bloody inconsequence which makes
the age silent in applause of it, and yet forces men whose
minds and hearts reject and loathe the system, to pour out
every drop of their heart's blood in obedience to it. The
terrible offence against every law of God and man, in thus
appealing to a bloody child's-play, need not even be
touched upon; such an argument has little weight. It is
the rational aspect of the affair—the coldly rational—that
overturns and routs it with a word, and stamps it as the
weak and sanguinary prejudice of men who inherit a tradition,
and are bound by it in chains stronger than the
shackles of a slave. It is the rational aspect which shows
plainly that participants in these affairs, fight neither for
revenge, or from hatred; but because they depend for their
opinions of themselves upon what others say of them—
and shrink before the ordeal with a pitiable fear, and go
and take a life they do not want—shed blood that cries
out from the ground against them to their latest hour, and
makes them children—fearful of the very winds and darkness.
This is the fatal flaw in all the poor sophistry—the
fact that they have suffered none of those terrible domestic
wrongs which madden the brain, and make the heart
thirsty for the perpetrator's blood—that they would not
risk the chance of leaving wives and children to the charity
of the world, for all the mines of Peru or Golconda—that
nothing in them calls for blood, except the poor whisper
of a false self-respect—“take care, they will laugh at
you!” It is this which causes so many such affairs to be
-- 389 --
[figure description] Page 389.[end figure description]
arranged to the satisfaction of both parties—it is this
which makes the world laugh and jeer—this well-known
fact that men act without any thirst for blood, with reluctance,
with dread: and that this is done in obedience
to a narrow and pitiable fear of ridicule; the laughter of
worldlings among men, or the whispers of women—of
women who forget that God is over them, and that some
day they will have a bloody reckoning to settle for their
words. We utter what the minds of the best and most
intelligent men, of every society of our times, believe and
are convinced of: we utter what will be acquiesced in by
all classes but the Captain Tarnishes, and those resembling
him—the fungi of the times—excrescences which break
out on the body social from the working of its purulent
and corrupt humors. Some day—to-morrow, or the next
year, or the next age—this pitiable and melancholy weakness
will be swept away: that public opinion, arising from
the noblest and most expanded culture of the brain and
heart, will strike it: and the very existence of a system
so degrading to immortals, will become a subject for the
wonder or the incredulity of men. That time comes
slowly—but it will come.
Mr. Incledon promised his friend to call again some
time in the course of the day, as he would probably be
passing, in making his arrangements for departure:—and
making this promise, he rose calmly, and wrapping his
cloak around him, took his departure.
Mr. Sansoucy sat for an hour, thinking of the events of
the morning—then finding his dinner hour approach,
went and performed almost a mere ceremony in that
-- 390 --
[figure description] Page 390.[end figure description]
particular—and then returning, sat down as before, and
pondered.
“Well, Ralph is a man of resolution, really enormous,”
he said, with a sigh, at last, and as the result of his reflections,
“and I don't know what will be the end of all this.
As long as Tarnish is mixed up with the affairs, however,
I am second principal in the struggle, and I'll do my part.
Bah! how I do despise these two men—and yet they have
the power, perhaps, to injure Ralph or myself. It is not
ambiguous voices which these gentlemen sprinkle—they
do not stop at falsehood! Tarnish, I'll bet, is over yonder
now, giving his version of the scene here this morning!
Can it be! can he be making up his falsehood, and retailing
it! He shan't misrepresent Ralph—I'll go see.”
And as suddenly as the resolution was conceived, did
Mr. Sansoucy put it into execution.
He summoned his servant, ordered him to direct any
one who called on business, to the shooting gallery, which
was near at hand: and then wrapping his overcoat about
him, issued forth, and soon reached the gallery.
The shooting and fencing gallery, in which Monsieur
Guillemot officiated, in the capacity of pistol-loader—foilstraitner,
mark-bearer, and fact-totum, generally, in place
of the proprietor, was one of those establishments so often
met with in cities, and much frequented by young gentlemen
engaged in killing time—an enemy which is savagely
attacked, and gotten rid of summarily, by billiards, cards,
wine drinking, races, and divertisements of a thousand
descriptions, more or less partaking of a rapid character.
True, there is little honor or profit to be derived from
-- 391 --
[figure description] Page 391.[end figure description]
these pursuits; and they generally make a very large hole
in even the most plump and well-stocked purse:—neither
is there any especial glory or subject for triumph in causing
a bell to ring at ten paces, with a pistol ball; but
still the direful enemy, Time, is routed by their assistance,
and the chief end of human life is accomplished.
The philosophy of Monsieur Guillemot's connection with
the gallery was better founded. His attention to the
pistols and the foils, brought him in a moderate, but sure
sum of money: and with this money, Monsieur Guillemot
assiduously administered to that life which his youthful
visitors seemed to be so desirous to get through with.
A sheet-iron board, of large size, marked in chalk, with
the figure of a man, whose heart was represented by a
bell—a number of tables, upon which were scattered foils
and masks—a group of gentlemen, among whom Monsieur
Guillemot glided, handing pistols, giving the word, and
performing his duties—this was the sight presented to
Mr. Sansoucy, when he entered.
Immediately in front of the door, stood Captain Tarnish—
and by his side, Mr. Fantish, whose face still wore
a cold sneer, from the events of the morning.
Captain Tarnish, who held a discharged pistol in his
hand, and was talking to an acquaintance, turned round,
as the door opened, and recognizing Mr. Sansoucy,
greeted him with a frown.
Having no desire to meet the Captain in combat at
the moment, Mr. Sansoucy passed by him without paying
any attention to his menacing look, which Mr. Fantish
-- 392 --
[figure description] Page 392.[end figure description]
copied; and going to the fire-place, greeted Monsieur
Guillemot.
“Ah, Mossieu Sansoucí!” said the old Frenchman,
“charmè de vous voir! what fine day!”
“Very cold, though,” said Mr. Sansoucy.
“Ver cold, but fine! You see my friends, Lacklitter,
to-day?”
“No; I've been busy.”
“Ah, Mossieu! nevare work too hard with head.'
Tis bad—'tis very bad, Mossieu Sansoucí!”
“So it is, my dear friend, and I have come over here to
look around, and listen, and perhaps take a few shots.”
“Ah, you will shoot!”
“Yes; come try your hand with me, Monsieur Guillemot.”
“I try my hand, Mossieu! You shoot with poor
Guillemot, who is bank-a-root, Mossieu! Quel honneur!”
“Honor? not at all. I think the honor will be on
your side,” said Sansoucy, amused at the modest self-appreciation
of the polite old Frenchman. “You”ll
beat me.”
“Beat you! nevare—ah! nevare Mossieu mon ami!”
cried the fencing master, shrugging his shoulders, elevating
his eyebrows, and turning out his hands which held
two pistols, “'tis too much honneur to 'ave for my friend
such gentleman as Mossieu Sansoucí. 'Tis true, Mossieu,'
tis very true. Voici le Capitaine Tarnish—he will shoot
with you, Mossieu!”
Captain Tarnish turned round upon hearing his name
spoken, and scowled at Monsieur Guillemot.
-- 393 --
[figure description] Page 393.[end figure description]
“What did you say?” he asked.
“I say, Monsieur le Capitaine,” said the Frenchman,
“that you and Mistare Sansoucí will shoot together, if it
please you!”
“Shoot!”
“Practeese, Mossieu.”
“Well, sir, I have no objection. I believe I have heard
a good deal of this gentleman's shooting, but I have never
seen it.”
“Nevare!” said the Frenchman, “est il possible! you'
ave nevare seen Mistare Sansoucí—him, Mossieu?”
“No.”
“Well see him now—here are ze pistols.”
“I am ready.”
Sansoucy stood completely thunderstruck at the impertinence
and want of delicacy in this man, who had only a
few hours before retreated ignominiously from him, under
a personal threat. He scarcely seemed to realize that
any one calling himself a man, could abdicate so completely
all self-respect.
It may thus easily be understood, that Mr. Sansoucy
was very far from intending to enter the lists of friendly
contest with a man whom he could not refrain from
despising.
“I am ready, sir,” said Captain Tarnish, with a grand
air, as he advanced to take the loaded pistol which Monsieur
Guillemot extended toward him.
“And I am not, sir,” said Mr. Sansoucy, in a freezing
tone, “I only shoot with gentlemen and my friends.”
The words, full of unmistakeable contempt and insult,
-- 394 --
[figure description] Page 394.[end figure description]
sounded clearly and distinctly in the silence—for at Captain
Tarnish's offer to try issues with his opponent, every
one in the gallery, who had gotten an inkling of the interview
of the morning, drew back, and ceased speaking.
It was then in the middle of a dead silence, that Mr.
Sansoucy uttered these distinct words:
“I am not ready, sir. I only shoot with gentlemen
and my friends!”
For an instant Captain Tarnish stood like a statue of
bronze, gazing at the cold face of his opponent.”
“Sir!” he said, at last, with an explosion, “do you
mean to insult me!”
“You may understand my words just as you please`”
replied Mr. Sansoucy, rivetting his eyes upon his opponent's
with as much contempt as anger; “just as you
please, sir! That is the privilege I grant you.”
Captain Tarnish placed his left hand upon his pistol,
and sprung the hammer back. As he did so, Mr. Sansoucy
felt a hand touch his arm, and this hand which
belonged to Monsieur Guillemot, contained the second
pistol.
“Are you ready, gentlemen,” said Monsieur Guillemot,
affecting to regard the conversation as a jest, “the bell is
not ring this morning.”
“I will shoot with you, not with this person,” said Mr.
Sansoucy, coldly taking the pistol.
Captain Tarnish's weapon pointed at the floor. If it
had been the intention of that worthy to commit a murder,
the sight of the pistol in his adversary's hand, caused him
-- 395 --
[figure description] Page 395.[end figure description]
to modify his resolution. He took refuge in bravado, and
said boastfully.
“I thought I would not see the fine shooting I was
promised.”
“By me, sir? you refer to our conversation some days
since?”
“I do, sir?”
“Well, I'll reply to that, sir?”
“You will much oblige me, sir!”
And Captain Tarnish made a threatening movement
with his pistol.
“I will oblige you,” said his opponent with a contempt
and coldness, galling in the extreme, even to the
Captain. “I reply simply, that I will not degrade
myself by meeting in friendly contest a man who brings a
bullying and insolent swagger to insult my friends with—
and finding that his miserable errand is abortive, ignominiously
abandons the position he has assumed, at the
first word! There is my reason for refusing, sir!”
As Mr. Sansoucy uttered these words, Mr. Fantisn
advanced toward him pale and sneering:
“A miserable errand, did you say, sir?” he asked,
coldly,
“Yes, sir—if I am forced to quarrel, let it be with
both, and let it be before everyone. Gentlemen,” added
the speaker, raising his voice, and addressing the group
which had gathered round them: “my friend, Mr. Incledon,
tells me that he disappointed an attempt of this
gentleman to commit an infamous wrong, this very morning—
a mortal defiance, couched in terms of the bitterest
-- 396 --
[figure description] Page 396.[end figure description]
insult followed—and it was brought by Captain Tarnish,
who retreated from my room before a threat of personal
chastisement. You shall judge now, whether I or the
officers of the law, are the proper umpires of the dispute.
I declare, distinctly, that nothing but the necessity of self-defence,
shall force me to have any contest with these
persons!”
Undoubtedly an attack would have followed these
words in a moment, but just as Mr. Sansoucy concluded,
a voice at the door said, suddenly:
“Ernest! Ernest!”
And Mr. Incledon, wrapped in his cloak, entered the
apartment, and approached the group quickly.
He had gone to Mr. Sansoucy's room—been directed
by the servant to the shooting gallery, and had arrived
just at the crisis of the dispute.
No sooner had Mr. Fantish become aware of the presence
of Mr. Incledon, than forgetting the new quarrel,
he turned like an enraged tiger upon the man he hated
so profoundly.
“Good!” he said, seizing the pistol in Captain Tarnish's
hand; “this little affair may wait. Ah, sir! at last
I meet you face to face!”
And grinding his teeth with rage, he pointed to the
table, on which lay a number of loaded pistols.
“Take your weapon, sir! I will force you, sir! now,
now! this very instant—here!”
And actually white with passion, Mr. Fantish cocked
his weapon.
Mr. Incledon stood perfectly still, and gazed as coldly
-- 397 --
[figure description] Page 397.[end figure description]
at his adversary, as he had done on that morning when
he stood opposite to him with a similar weapon, giving a
similar challenge.
“I will not fight with you, sir,” he said: “and that
for the separate reasons, that I do not consider myself
called to meet you: would not, if I were—and, lastly,
that you are better used to your weapon than myself
This is a lesser objection, however, sir.”
And Mr. Incledon stood like a statue before his enraged
adversary, who twice raised his pistol with the
crime of murder in his heart.
But Mr. Fantish never completely lost his reason; and
nothing but madness could have led him to fire upon an
unarmed man in presence of a dozen witnesses.
“You refuse! do you wish me to strike you, sir, and
dishonor you? You refuse,” he said, with almost a howl
of rage: “you refuse upon the miserable pretence that
you are not accustomed to the pistol. But you shall not
escape, sir! I have seen you fence, and we are good
matches—there, sir!”
And seizing two foils, Mr. Fantish snapped off the
buttons, leaving the sharp steel points, and grasping
one, threw the other on the table, close to Mr. Incledon's
right hand.
“Refuse now! and I will brand you as a coward! yes,
sir, as a coward!”
The tone of these words was unendurably insulting, and a
faint tinge came to his opponent's cheeks: his eyes flashed.
“Ah, you are not made of iron, I see! Take your
weapon, sir, or I will slap your face!”
-- 398 --
[figure description] Page 398.[end figure description]
With a movement, which was perfectly unconscious,
Mr. Incledon threw back his cloak, and as he did so, a
shudder passed over his frame, and his eyes fell upon the
weapon.
“Defend yourself!” cried his adversary, advancing
furiously to strike; “defend yourself, or I will drive my
foil through your craven heart!”
The cup was full.
Mastered by passion, aroused from the depths of his
nature, and yielding to the fiery thought, that, after all,
it was only self-defence in him, Mr. Incledon grasped the
handle of the foil, and parried the blow which Mr. Fantish
directed at his heart.
The contact of his hand with the long unused weapon
seemed to change the man into his former passionate self:
and losing thought of everything but the adversary before
him, he rushed toward him as savagely as he had been
attacked.
The two enemies were both excellent fencers, and the
hilts of their weapons clashed and held them thus face to
face for an instant.
Then the combat commenced really, and the crowd drew
back from the spot, frightened by the furious cruelty of
the weapons, which flashed like lightning in the powerful
hands of the adversaries.
In ten minutes, Mr. Incledon, overcome with fury, and
feeling a giant's strength in his wrist, had driven his opponent
to the table on the opposite side; and there, parrying
a desperate lunge, had closed and driven his weapon full
upon his enemy's heart.
-- --
[figure description] Illustration page.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]
-- 399 --
[figure description] Page 399.[end figure description]
One moment would have seen the end of Mr. Fantish—
only his thin silk waistcoat and linen protected him from
the sharp point, driven by the furious hand—in one moment
Mr. Incledon might have ended the contest by taking
his adversary's life.
But he did not. He arrested his hand as it was driving
the point home: and said with a shudder:
“Take your life—I have no use for it.”
The words were not uttered, when Mr. Fantish, livid
with rage, drove his sword forward completely through
his opponent's shoulder, in which it snapped.
At the same moment, Captain Tarnish seized the weapon
of Mr. Incledon, but received immediately a violent
blow from Mr. Sansoucy, which cut and brought the blood
from his temples, and threw him backward.
Mr. Fantish rose erect; and as he did so, Mr. Incledon
dropped his weapon, and leaning one hand on the table,
would have fainted but for prompt assistance.
“A murder!” cried Sansoucy, throwing himself
toward Mr. Fantish, “I arrest this man for murder!”
But the movement of the crowd separated them, and
Mr. Fantish, finding himself unobserved for the instant,
shrunk from the group which supported Incledon, and
with a curse upon his lips rushed through the door and
disappeared.
Sansoucy, with his own hand drew out the broken steel,
and staunched the blood.
As he rose, he looked round with his fiery eyes for the
man who had caused this—saw that he had disappeared—
ran to the window and threw it up, to call on passers by to
-- 400 -- p506-409
[figure description] Page 400.[end figure description]
stop him: — and then suddenly grew motionless and
pale.
Mr. Fantish had descended the stairs, and leaped into
his open carriage—caught the reins—and struck his fiery
horses violently with the whip.
Driven to fury by the cruel blow, they reared, started
forward like lightning, and crashing against the stone abutment
of the corner of the street, broke the carriage into
a thousand pieces. Mr. Fantish, hurled out violently, fell,
striking his temple against the stones.
This was what Mr. Sansoucy had witnessed
CHAPTER XXXVII. DOCTOR FOSSYL AND HIS PATIENT.
Since the scene related in the last chapter, more than
two weeks had passed—weeks in which dreary winds have
beaten against window-panes, snow-storms fallen silently,
and the hard, frozen earth grown colder; and the human
passions, whose disastrous consequences we have traced,
grown colder too, and died away, and left the brains
heated by them, cool once more, and sensitive to all of
good in human hearts.
Stretched on his bed, with a countenance so thin and
pale, that it scarcely resembles anything earthly, Mr. Fantish
lies, breathing faintly, and with the measured movement
of the invalid who barely possesses strength enough
to expand his lungs, and draw in the element which
ministers to life.
-- 401 --
[figure description] Page 401.[end figure description]
On the table a host of medicine-bottles show that the
utmost art of the physician has been exerted to retain in
the feeble frame the fainting spirit of life, balanced upon
its pinions, and ready at any moment to take its flight.
But it has slowly returned to its prison-house of clay—
the trance of pain and anguish has passed away—the
blood once more begins to move and flow regularly through
the nearly stiff channels of the weary frame: and life has
come back slowly, and is triumphant over its enemy,
death.
In those long hours of agony—agony not only of the
frame, but of the mind—the sick man has reflected long,
and painfully.
The shadow of death has made him regard in their
true light the passions to which he has yielded himself
for years:—all that is good in his nature has come back
to him, concealed, not choked out, by the poisonous overgrowth
of later years.
The curtain is not before the picture now; and from
the canvass a face full of love looks down upon him, pities
him, and seems to reach towards him hands which rain
down tenderness and blessings. Infinite mother's love!
which gilds the weary world, and holds the hard man
with silken cords more strong than chains of steel, and
breaks his heart with memories of the old, old days, and
changes, purifies and saves him!
What once he was afraid to look upon, and covered
with a curtain, shutting out from that pure presence the
associates whose looks and words were sacrilegious
almost, in their contrast with the portrait,—fills him now
-- 402 --
[figure description] Page 402.[end figure description]
with love, and tenderness, and penitence. Passed from
him with a thousand blessings on her dying lips long
years ago, she lives again for him in the world of memory;
and going out of the faulty and repulsive present, he takes
refuge in the past, and feels the dear mother's lips upon
his brow, and moans to think of what he was and is, and
cries like a child, thinking of all her goodness to him
when he was indeed a little child, and knelt at her knee,
and clasped his hands in prayer.
Thank heaven, that if human souls are bad and foul,
and desperately bent on following the paths of evil, none
are wholly so. The man has never lived who has not at
some moment felt his heart sink within him, and his eyes
moisten, thinking of his childhood and that love which is
nearer the love of heaven, than anything else upon the
poor corrupt earth.
So he lies for a long time almost dreaming: thinking
of his childhood. Then his faint eyes rise to the picture;
and the lids moisten, and the man, murmurs, “mother!”
As he speaks the door opens, and his physician enters.
It is Doctor Fossyl, who, in passing on the day of his
accident, had supported him until he reached the house,
and since, attended to him.
“Doctor, he murmurs, “do you think I am out of
danger yet?”
“No,” growls the Doctor, but with less harshness than
usual.
“How long shall I live then?”
“I didn't say you were going to die!—remarkable,”
-- 403 --
[figure description] Page 403.[end figure description]
muttered the Doctor to himself, “how weak a man's brain
becomes by a little suffering!”
The invalid remains silent for a moment, and then says
faintly:
“So I will live and recover?”
“Yes—that is, it is probable, though you had a fall
hard enough to crack the scull of an ox.”
“It was terrible!” the sick man murmurs, closing his
eyes.
“Don't think about it,” Doctor Fossyl says, “and tell
me how you feel this morning.”
“Faint and weak, but with less pain—I think the bone
is uniting.”
“Certainly, it is.”
“I shall live.”
“Of course.”
“Do you know, Doctor,” murmurs the sick man, “that
I wish to live? I did not think I should have such a
desire for life. I never cared for my life, but I do now”
“Hum, sir! a very natural circumstance. That is the
way with most men: they don't care for their lives—
they'll run into a thousand perils—risk their necks in a
chase, or any other desperate amusement: they don't care
for life—not they! Well, that's all very fine. Only wait
until death reaches out his hand to clutch them, and they
find that their life hangs on a thread—presto! they are
anxious, terribly anxious for a little more life—a little
more time. They wish to renew the note—pay a small
discount of suffering and physic—and put miser Death off
-- 404 --
[figure description] Page 404.[end figure description]
till a future day. That's the common sight I see everywhere,
sir, and you don't surprise me.”
The sick man makes a faint movement with his head,
as though these words do not describe his feeling.
“That is not what I mean, Doctor,” he says, lowly.
“What do you mean, then?”
“I mean that I have lived a miserable life heretofore—
and that I wish to break off from it, and go away, and
live better.”
The Doctor looked at the patient, and muttered, “the
old tale!” Then he says, aloud:
“So you are going to reform?”
“I am going to change my habits and associates!” is
the faint reply: “Do you know what that man, Tarnish,
did, Doctor?”
“Tarnish? Oh! that blackleg! No I do not.”
“I will tell you. He came here one morning, just
after you had left me, when I was too weak to move or
call; and said that my `cursed folly' had put him in
danger of a prosecution; and he was warned by a friend
of the intention of the officers of the law to arrest him on
suspicion of having been engaged in some crime—an abduction,
or something—do not ask me what.”
And the invalid pauses, with a faint color in his cheeks.
“Well, growls the Doctor, “what followed this interesting
communication of Captain Tarnish's.”
“Insult and robbery,” replied the sick man, “he loaded
me with abuse, until the bandage on my wound dripped
with blood—for the excitement caused my blood to flow—
and then having relieved himself of all the hatred which
-- 405 --
[figure description] Page 405.[end figure description]
my numerous rebuffs had caused him—he calmly went to
my secretary there—opened it with the key from my
waistcoat pocket—and carried away with him two hundred
dollars, in gold, I had procured one day from bank,
and placed there in his presence.”
“Robbery!”
“Yes, Doctor—simple felony. I could not even raise
my voice, and with a last insult, he informed me that it
would be useless to inform against him: he would be out
of the way, before I could do anything. But I did not
wish to—I was willing to let this man depart; too well
satisfied to be rid of him.”
“What a scoundrel!”
“He was thrown with bad associates, and became depraved
by them, and by vice, I suppose, Doctor. Alas!
I have no right to judge hastily of him.”
And having, by these words, shown how total a change
in his character had taken place, the sick man adds, “now
you know, Doctor, what I mean, when I say that I am
resolved to change my habits, and my associates.”
The Doctor looked at the invalid with a dubious expression,
and it is plain that the meaning of this look is
understood.
“You mean that I am like sick men generally—that I
make a number of good resolutions during my weakness
and pain, which I will straightway forget, when I recover
my health and strength. But I think you are mistaken,
Doctor. I have been very ill two or three times, but never
formed any such resolutions. I attribute my present determination
to the fact that I have reached that point in
-- 406 --
[figure description] Page 406.[end figure description]
life and character when a man either sinks into an animal,
and dies speedily of drunkenness, or breaks away from his
bad life and changes. I wish to live and do this, Doctor;
shall I live?”
“Yes,” the Doctor says, looking vacantly at the patient,
“yes, it is true.”
“True, Doctor—what is?”
“I have seen it.”
“What, Doctor?—you seem to be thinking of something
else.
“Ah? What?” says the Doctor, waking up, as it
were, with a troubled brow.
“I asked if I would live, and if so, recover soon!”
“I do not know when you will recover—in two months,
may-be.”
“So long!”
“Perhaps longer.”
“What a time I shall have here, through the long,
weary days;—I have no books, or none that I care to
read: do you know, Doctor, I have not even a Bible!”
“A Bible!
“Not even a Bible. You think it strange I should
want a Bible—but my mother taught me to read in it,
Doctor—that is her portrait.”
And the invalid gazes with great softness on the picture.
“Hum,” growls the Doctor, “there 's a child down in
the passage who, as I am told, always carries a Bible.
Her uncle 's sick, and she 's come with me to get his medicine
from my office.”
“A child, Doctor?”
-- 407 --
[figure description] Page 407.[end figure description]
“Yes.”
“In my passage?”
“I suppose she is—I ordered her to get out of the
carriage, which is a perfect ice-house, and come in while I
saw you.”
“I wish you would ask her to come and lend me her
Bible until she returns—or rather to read me some, as
I 'm so weak.”
The doctor looks doubtfully at the sick man, and
growls:
“Do you know who this child is?”
“No, Doctor.”
“Her name 's Ellen Lacklitter, and I heard your
father—”
“Oh, Doctor! I remember without another word!
My father forced him from one of his houses, when he was
ill! Oh, doctor, don't speak of my father!”
And a frown contracts the sick man's brow.
“Do you want to see the child?” growls the physician.
“Yes, ask her to come up. I do not think she will feel
any enmity toward me, because I have the misfortune to
be afflicted with a cruel father. You smile in triumph,
Doctor, and would taunt me with the bad feeling that
remains in me. Well, sir, I do not deny that I retain a
sentiment toward the man who is my father, wholly improper—
but I cannot prevent it. You ought to tell the
child who I am, and then let her come if she will—if she
will not, I have no complaint to make.”
And the sick man sinks back.
Doctor Fossyl gazes at him for a moment, smiles
-- 408 -- p506-417
[figure description] Page 408.[end figure description]
sardonically, and opening the door, descends into the passage
where Ellie is sitting.
CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE WAYS OF PROVIDENCE.
Doctor Fossyl paused for a moment, gazing at Ellie;
then taking a pinch of snuff, and looking keenly from beneath
his shaggy grey eyebrows, said harshly:
“Child, do you know in whose house you are?”
“No, sir,” said Ellie, raising her eyes in astonishment
at this strange question, and the strange manner of the
speaker.
“You speak the truth?”
“Oh, yes, sir! yes, sir!”
“Well, I will tell you who lives here. His name is
Fantish.”
“Mr. Fantish, sir! Mr. Fantish who—”
“Turned your uncle into the street when he was sick,
like a dog? Yes, the same—or, at least, his son, who is
said to be even worse than his father!”
Ellie's cheeks were tinged with a faint color, and she
looked toward the door.
The doctor saw the look.
“Ah! you wish to leave immediately, do you? Eh?
You bear malice!—you are going!”
“Oh, no, sir!” said Ellie, earnestly; “I do not bear
-- 409 --
[figure description] Page 409.[end figure description]
malice—oh, no, sir! But if Mr. Fantish is so bad, I
would rather—I would rather go, sir.”
“You can't!” said the Doctor, keenly watching every
expression of the child's countenance.
“Can't, sir!” she said.
“No.”
“Why not, sir?”
“Because he has sent me for you.”
“He! he send for me, sir!”
“Yes: he told me to come down and say he wanted
you to come up.”
“Come up, sir!”
“Yes—and read to him in the Bible. I told him that
you were the niece of Joe Lacklitter, who, when he was
burnt up with fever, when his lips were parched and his
eyes fiery, when his brow was covered with the sweat of
agony, and his breath came in pants from his weak breast—
who, when he was thus overcome with pain and suffering,
was ordered to give up his house, the very bed he lay
upon, and go out naked into the snowy streets—all by
the elder Mr. Fantish, the young man's father. I told
him this, and said that probably you would not come,
and that nobody could blame you.”
“Oh! I should blame myself, sir, though!” said Ellie,
flushing with agitation. “I should never forgive myself
if I did not forgive him even if he had done this. Oh,
sir! if he wishes me to do anything, I will do it willingly!”
And taking off her old wadded bonnet, which allowed
her brown waving hair to fall around her face so soft and
pure, Ellie waited for the doctor to lead her.
-- 410 --
[figure description] Page 410.[end figure description]
The doctor stood looking at her in silence; then he
said harshly:
“Don't you hate that man?”
“Oh no, sir!”
“Why don't you?”
“It would be so sinful, sir! and I would not be obeying
the command `Love one another.”'
“Humph!”
And uttering this exclamation, Doctor Fossyl preceded
Ellie to the chamber.
“Here's the child!” he growled, as he closed the door.
The sick man looked at Ellie, who remained standing
near the threshold, and said faintly:
“What is your name, little girl?”
“Ellen, sir.”
“Ellen Lacklitter, is it not?”
“Yes sir,” said the child, coloring.
“My father treated your father—or your uncle—
harshly, did he not?”
Ellie stammered out a few disconnected words, which
were neither in the affirmative or the negative.
“Don't think of that, sir,” she said more calmly, but
timidly; “or speak of it, sir.”
“I speak of it in order to ask your forgiveness for
being connected with him; and to say that I had no part
in such cruelty as this.”
“Oh, sir!” murmured Ellie, almost as faintly as the
invalid.
“I understand—you defend him—that only proves that
-- 411 --
[figure description] Page 411.[end figure description]
you are a noble child. Now open your Bible, Ellen, if
you have one, and read some to me.”
He had scarcely spoken when a step was heard upon
the stairs, and a low knock came to the door.
The sick man turned paler than before—he had recognized
the step.
“My father!” he said.
“You will see him, of course;” said Doctor Fossyl,
with all his eyes and ears open for the details of the
strange scene which was about to be played before him.
“No!” said the invalid, coloring; “No! I will not.”
“He has been here, repeatedly.”
“It was, while I was insensible.”
“He is your father.”
“It is my misfortune.”
The knock was repeated.
“What shall I do?” said Dr. Fossyl, whose eyes glittered
with triumph—for his theories were in the ascendant
again at this evidence of bitter feeling.
“Say, I will not see him.”
“Must I!”
“Yes.”
The Doctor moved toward the door; but Mr. Fantish,
senior, had become weary, and opened the door, as he
touched the knob.
His appearance was much changed since we have seen
him, on that day when he and his son parted, with mutual
defiance. Mr. Fantish, senior, no longer surveys every
object around him with hard eyes, gleaming coldly from
his brows. He no longer produces the impression of a
-- 412 --
[figure description] Page 412.[end figure description]
man who would deprive a widow and her children of their
last loaf to satisfy his claim. He is thinner, and even
pale. His cheeks have fallen away—his eyes are eager
and seem to crave something more than gold.
During his son's fever and delirium, he had come every
day, and sat at the bedside, and held the thin, feverish
hand in his own; and more than once, when the young
man's mind wandered, and he cried out in his delirium,
had wiped away something like moisture from his eyes,
long unused to weep.
As we have said, this man had one strong feeling, over
and above his passion for gain; and that was his love
for and pride in his brilliant and reckless son—who
had always occupied a singular position of independence
and freedom from parental restraint. When the news
reached him of the dreadful accident which placed the
young man's life in imminent jeopardy, he had felt a
shudder run through his heart, and had hastened immediately
to his bed-side.
These visits, as we have said, had been frequently
repeated, and he had watched the progress of the patient
with deep solicitude. One day he was informed that his
son's mind had become clear again, and had wished to go
up as usual. But this Dr. Fossyl had forbidden. It was
necessary that the patient should remain wholly quiet.
And the wretched father had gone away in silence. Another
day he had been informed that his son was asleep—and
thus he had not seen him since he had recovered his reason.
As he now pushed by Doctor Fossyl, who stood against
the wall, grim and silent, with that curiosity which was
-- 413 --
[figure description] Page 413.[end figure description]
one of the strongest traits of his character; the old man's
eyes were full of earnest feeling, and he approached the
bed with a manner almost timid.
“God be thanked, you are yourself again, Ashell, “he
said tremulously, “you will soon recover.”
“Do not thank God for anything, sir,” said his son,
turning from him with a displeasure which was unmistakeable;
“the words sound badly in your mouth!”
The father uttered a sigh.
“You are not glad to see me!” he said, with a groan.
“No, I am not, sir!”
“Why are you so cruel?”
“I am just, sir.”
“Oh, no!”
“Yes, just!” said the young man, with a faint color in
his pallid cheeks, “and I lie here, because you are my
father.”
“Oh! Ashell!
“Yes, sir!”
The old man uttered a groan, and sat down as though
too weak to stand.
“Yes, sir! said the young man, speaking in a tone of
great excitement, in spite of Doctor Fossyl's warning gesture;
“yes, sir! this life which I have been leading,
which I loathe, and which has brought me here, was
caused by you. My mother would have made me pure like
herself—she would have suppressed those seeds of evil
which my character contained, and which have ripened
into this harvest: you developed them! I learned from
you to be worldly, and that taught me to be vicious!
-- 414 --
[figure description] Page 414.[end figure description]
You taught me that money was a god, and I scoffed at
you, and followed my own ways, and laughed at you, but
I obeyed your teachings! I came to look on life as a
farce, played by contemptible actors—I drank and played,
and wallowed in every vice.—I attempted to wrong, bitterly,
a woman—and I am justly punished! It was not
those wild horses who hurled me on that stone—it was
you, sir! It was not the last act of my miserable will
which laid me here, it was your hand strangling in me what
my mother taught me! And after all this, you think I
will love you! No, sir, I do not, and I cannot. I will
not be a hypocrite, and I speak plainly!”
Overcome with his bitter feelings, the young man fell
back, almost fainting.
The wretched father only said, in a low voice:
“Ashell! Ashell!”
“Well, sir!” his son said, turning away his head.
“I have been wrong!”
“You confess it!”
“Yes.”
“It is well, sir: but that does not restore me.”
“What can I do to show you how much I deplore the
unhappy relations that have existed between us! to show
you that I bitterly regret the past.”
“Nothing, sir.”
“Ah, yes, I can make my confession—”
“It is unnecessary, sir.”
“No, it is necessary: and no feeling of pride shall keep
me from saying what I have to say. I have lived a
miserable life, indeed, if my own son will not listen to me.
-- 415 --
[figure description] Page 415.[end figure description]
I have been hard and cruel, worldly and selfish; I have
made money my god, and laughed at what other men
called pity and kindness, and benevolence! I have been
a machine which was useless for any other purpose, than
to scrape together coin. I taught you this, too—yes, I
tried to make you worldly and selfish. I succeeded in a
measure, and I see the bitter fruits of it. Your mother—”
“Do not mention her!” the sick man said, with a
groan.
“Oh, yes, I must, to make you see how I loathe my
conduct. Your mother would have taught you to be
true and pure—I taught you what was different. You
and your mother united yourself more closely, and I
thought it a conspiracy against me. I ill-treated her—
may God forgive me: and here, with her face looking
down upon me, I ask her spirit to pardon me, and humble
myself before you. Ashell, Ashell! you are not stone to
turn away from me.”
He looked at his father, with flushed eyes, and said, in
a trembling voice.
“If I am stone, it is you, sir, who have made me so.”
As he spoke, his eyes fell upon Ellie, who was gazing
at him with an expression of wild fear, which made her
countenance a spectacle to rivet the attention.
“What are you looking at me so for?” he murmured,
“have you, too, turned against me?”
“Oh, sir! do not!—do not!—it is wrong—!” cried
the child, carried away by her wild excitement. “Oh, it
is wrong, sir!”
-- 416 --
[figure description] Page 416.[end figure description]
And, overwhelmed with emotion, the child was silent,
gazing with an affrighted look upon his face.
“What is wrong?” he said, faintly, “speak! do not be
afraid! I wish you to speak. What is wrong?”
“Oh, you'll be offended, sir!”
“No! What is wrong?”
“To speak thus to your father, sir!” cried Ellie, trembling
with agitation. “Oh, do not, sir! it is not right!
Oh, if he has done wrong, you ought not to remember it,
sir! Oh, you ought not to!”
And, yielding to her agitation, Ellie covered her face,
and sobbed.
Her agitated words made a visible impression upon the
young man, who murmured:
“Like her, like her!”
And turning to his father, he said, with feverish eyes.
“Do you know this child, sir?”
“No, Ashell: I have never seen her.”
“Her name is Lacklitter.”
“Lacklitter!”
“Yes,” he said, feverishly, “and you turned her uncle
and herself into the street, when he was ill. God has
raised up a terrible witness against you, sir—and what a
witness! She pleads for the man who caused her wretchedness,
who was guilty of the direst cruelty toward her,
who is punished now by God, in the person of his son,
and in his own remorse!”
The old man gazed at Ellie, for a moment, with a
stupefaction which was painful to see.
“But if she has forgiven me, it is all the more cruel in
-- 417 --
[figure description] Page 417.[end figure description]
you, Ashell, to remember!” was the painful cry of the old
man, “if a stranger I have bitterly wronged, pardon me,
the son I have toiled and worn myself out for, should not
remain unforgiving. Oh, Ashell, I have done all this for
you—I have turned this child and her uncle into the
street for you. Yes! God has punished me terribly for
this act—and if asking pardon of this child, upon my
knees, would avail anything—”
“Oh, sir!” cried the child, raising her head and sobbing,
“do not think I bear any bad feeling—I have forgotten
all!—and God says we shall not keep bad feelings toward
each other—look, sir!” she said, turning toward the sick
man, and holding out her Bible, where she had opened it.
“Oh, see what it says!”
His eyes fell on the page, and he read not what Ellie
had pointed to, but words which seemed to be written
there with a pen of fire.
Strange coincidence! These words had been taught
him by his mother, when a child; and they now came back
to him like a far breath of infancy. It seemed to him that
his mother held the book toward him; not the child: he
seemed to see the eyes of the portrait fill with tears of tenderness
and love, as in the old, old days:—the thought
suddenly rushed over him that possibly the spirit of his
mother hovered in the air, and waited for the answer
which she could not influence as of old.
What would she have him answer? He did not hesitate.
He turned, and held out his thin hand toward his
father, his eyes filling with weak tears—say rather mighty
tears!—and pressing it to his heart and lips, the old man
-- 418 -- p506-427
[figure description] Page 418.[end figure description]
wept and sobbed, and uttered his first prayer of thanks
for years.
At the same moment a young woman, seated leagues
away, in a dim chamber, bent down to her knees, and
sobbed, “How mad and base, and miserable I was—God
pardon me!”
At the same moment, a man, with his right arm in a
sling, and seated on a bank, which caught the flush of
evening, said, “How peaceful! after all these thoughts and
struggles, this is pure happiness! O merciful Redeemer
make us thine in all things!”
The father and son were reconciled;—the young girl's
eyes were opened;—the strong man was again face to face
with nature, and his heart.
BOOK III.
CHAPTER I. IN WHICH THE HISTORY RETURNS TO OTHER PERSONAGES: AND CHRONICLES A SLEIGH-RIDE.
The great waves of time which ever flow on over joys
and griefs, over sorrows and rejoicings—scarcely reflecting
in their ever-changing surfaces, the brightest smiles, and
absorbing carelessly the bitterest tears—the waves of time
-- 419 --
[figure description] Page 419.[end figure description]
have swept onward, since the events we have just detailed;
and another month has nearly passed into a thing of
memory. Winter faints on the threshold of the spring
which comes in, brilliant and rejoicing;—but as though
to marshal all his forces for a final struggle, the old
Winter has exhausted his entire strength in his last snow
storm.
At the door of a handsome and comfortable house in
the outskirts of the city, a sleigh is standing; and the
spirited horses, held with difficulty by a diminutive African,
who is suspended in the air from their foaming mouths,
toss their heads, and send the snow up in rainbow clouds
with their impatient hoofs.
Soon the door of the mansion opens—a good-humored
old gentleman and his equally good-humored wife appear;
and behind these may be seen the faces of a younger gentleman,
a young lady, and two little girls—all wrapped up
securely for a sleigh-ride.
The good-humored old gentleman is Mr. Ashton, cousin
and host of Miss Aurelia—the old lady is his wife; the
young gentleman is our friend, Mr. Sansoucy; the young
lady, Aurelia:—lastly, the little girls, who are twins, constitute
the entire, remaining family of the old gentleman
and his wife.
Miss Aurelia is enveloped in a multitude of furs, and
her rosy cheeks and dancing eyes, cause this young lady
to present an appearance decidedly attractive.
“Oh, me!” cries Miss Aurelia, laughing gaily, “am I
to trust my valuable neck to those wild animals.?”
“Pshaw!” Mr. Sansoucy says, putting on his gloves,
-- 420 --
[figure description] Page 420.[end figure description]
“they are admirably broken, madam; and even if they
were wild, you know my prowess as a driver”
“I, sir!”
“Yes—when we were children—twenty years ago, you
know!—”
“Indeed, sir!”
“Come,” says Mr. Sansoucy, laughing: “here's a
young lady who is growing ashamed of her age, and who
does not deign to remember when we rode colts together—”
“Never, sir! I deny it!”
“Very well!”
“Oh, did you, cousin Aurelia?”
“Did you, cousin?”
These are the exclamations of Mademoiselles Lizzie
and Bel, who clap their diminutive hands, and rise on tiptoe
to look at the horses.
“Don't mind this gentleman, children,” says Aurelia,
with a delightful expression of elderly protection: “he's
dreadfully mischievous, and if he could run away with
us—”
“He would?” says Mr. Sansoucy.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I don't know that you are wrong, Miss Ashton.
But I promise to refrain to-day. Good morning, Mrs.
Ashton—good morning, sir—come, young ladies—we are
losing time.”
And Mr. Sansoucy issues forth, and takes the reins.
Aurelia and the children linger to embrace the old
folks, as young ladies of all ages will, and then they get
into the sleigh, which has four seats.
-- 421 --
[figure description] Page 421.[end figure description]
The manœuvres of Mr. Sansoucy upon that occasion,
would have excited the admiration of the greatest tactician
in the world.
His affectionate solicitude to see the children wrapped
up, warmly and comfortably, in the back-seat, was touching
to behold; and such was his anxiety about their
welfare, that he absolutely neglected Miss Aurelia, who
stood in the snow, and shivered and pouted beautifully.
As the children took up all the back seat thus, it was
absolutely necessary that Mr. Sansoucy should place
Aurelia on the seat beside himself; and this he did,
making a soft and pleasant seat for the young lady, by
spreading over it, a magnificent buffalo robe. A variegated
robe, edged with crimson, was then thrown over—
shall we say—Miss Aurelia's knees: and so, with joyous
laughter, and the noise of bells, the sleigh fled onward—
the frolicsome horses held in by the experienced hand of
their admirable driver.
On, through the city! sending up clouds of snow!—
by merry groups of boys at street corners, who sent after
the party showers of snow balls, which caused Bel and
Lizzie—recognizing beaus among the crowd—to shout
with laughter!—on, by the glittering stores, with their
picture-crowded windows, by the long rows of houses,
brilliant internally with roaring fires, by gentlemen and
ladies, children, and their sports—the merry sleigh flew
on, and out of the city, leaving in its wake the joyous
jingle of its silver bells, and disappearing like a meteor
or a shooting star.
They fled into the country, through the vast
-- 422 --
[figure description] Page 422.[end figure description]
bleaklooking fields, and past the comfortable farm houses—
every eye dancing with delight, even down—or up—to
Mr. Sansoucy, grown a boy again, and innocent of any
connection with the “Weekly Mammoth.” which had
passed away from him, and rested no more, for the
moment on his conscience!
“Oh! we are going so fast!” cries Miss Aurelia, with
cheeks rosier than when she started, and a pair of
diamonds in place of eyes; how delightful!”
“Is it?” says her companion.
“Yes, indeed.
“Like old times?”
“No, not a bit. Monsieur was not so elegant a
cavalier in old times.”
“Possible!”
“Not half!”
And Miss Aurelia laughs merrily.
“I thought you liked me very well in old times,” said
Mr. Sansoucy, with a look which caused the rosy face to
grow even rosier. “Come, sing me, `Where are the
friends of my youth? Oh, where are those cherished
ones gone?' ”
And having revived this former joke by a plagiarism
upon himself, Mr. Sansoucy touched his horses with the
whip, and caused them to fly.
“I will not,” said Miss Aurelia, pouting; “if I sang
anything, it would be the new song.”
And she hummed, with a blush, and a laughing
glance, a lyric, which declared that under certain
-- 423 --
[figure description] Page 423.[end figure description]
circumstances, a person of the ancient mythology might
“go to Jericho.”
This was much applauded by Mr. Sansoucy, who
requested the remainder of the song, which was promptly
refused: and they fled on again—the bells having for
their undertone, the laughter of the happy children.
“Where is Monsieur taking us?” said Aurelia, after
a moment: “we must have gone nearly a hundred
miles!”
“Couldn't you go that far—with me?”
“No, sir!”
“How cruel! Now Bel or Lizzie would—wouldn't
you, little ones?”
“I would!” said Miss Bel, who had a pair of large,
dangerous eyes, which she was already learning to use.
“And you, Lizzie?” said Mr. Sansoucy, shaking with
laughter.
“If you brought us back to papa and mamma by dinner-time,”
said Lizzie, smiling.
“Dinner-time!” cried Mr. Sansoucy, shaking more
than ever: “can you think of dinner on such a day as
this?”
“I can, sir,” said Miss Aurelia, with a delicious expression
of matter-of-fact; “and I request to know
whether we are to dine at home, to-day, or on the Rocky
Mountains?”
“On the prairie!” said Mr. Sansoucy: “on the prairie,
and off of buffalo hump!”
“Oh! how nice that will be!” cried Miss Aurelia,
-- 424 --
[figure description] Page 424.[end figure description]
endeavoring to clap her hands, but only pressing Mr.
Sancoucy's arm, which chanced to interpose—which circumstance
caused the young lady to cease immediately,
and quickly draw away her hand.
“That bridge yonder—do you see it?” Mr. Sansoucy,
said, laughing.
“Yes!”
“Well, that bridge leads over the Mississippi—so we
are almost there.”
“`Are we almost there!”'
“Yes; what a charming voice.”
“Thanks, sir!”
“Have you adapted the song I wrote, in obedience to
your ladyship's commands, to music yet?” said Sansoucy.
“Hum!—well—”
“Oh! indeed you have, cousin Aurelia!” cried Bel.
“It's so pretty!” said Lizzie.
“And so very suitable!” said Aurelia, satirically.
“There's the unreasonableness of woman!” cried Mr.
Sansoucy, in despair. “I am asked to write upon a
given subject—I comply; and then I am taunted with
my compliance—a thing which I might have expected,”
added the speaker, with a gloomy look, “for who can
calculate upon women!”
Aurelia is touched by this tone of uncomplaining
sorrow, and says, faintly:
“You are very unjust, sir; and you have no right to
expect—if, however, I knew it a little better—”
“Oh! you know it very well!” cried little Bel; “you
were singing it all last night, cousin Aurelia!”
-- 425 --
[figure description] Page 425.[end figure description]
Miss Aurelia blushes and laughs.
“Please sing it, cousin, says Liz.
“And if my humble petition now renewed would—”
“Well, sir, I will try; and perhaps the contrast will
amuse you.”
And Miss Aurelia commences singing the following
lyric, which has been, as the reader heard, contributed by
Mr. Sansoucy—the design having been to furnish Misses
Liz and Bel with a song for their May-day festival, still
a long way off.
The merry sleigh bells serve for an accompaniment; and
the fine, tender voice of the young girl, with an undertone
of laughter, sings “The Children's Prayer to Maia,” which
is in the following words:
Give us a sunny morning, Maia dear,
For our nice May-day: let no misty rain,
Now when our holiday has come so near,
Fall on the sweet flowers, springing in the plain.
Give us a morning full of light and joy.
Dear Maia; you, they say, are queen of May:
Make the time bright and sweet for girl and boy;
Make the sky blue and worthy of the day:
For the gay garlands glitter, flower on flower,
And muslin dresses hang out in the sun,
And all is ready for the morning hour;
Run quickly, sun! through the dim night-time run!
For all the girls are binding up their hair,
And all the boys are dreaming of the morn
And it's so nice to breathe the sunny air!
Therefore, good Maia, let the day be born.
With joy and merry music swimming through
The laughing air; and birds upon the trees
Singing for lightness; and a pretty blue
In the far sky: and murmuring busy bees!
-- 426 --
[figure description] Page 426.[end figure description]
Oh! what a day we'll have, if you are kind,
Oh, Maia listen to us! we will try
And always love you, if we wake and find
The sunlight in the beautiful, cloudless sky!
Give us a sunny morning, Maia, dear!
Give us light hearts, the livelong happy day—
May nothing happen that will bring a tear,
But all be laughter; Maia, hear us pray!
For we are children, nothing more: the things
That please old grown-up people are not ours!
Wake the May morn with every bird that sings;
Deck the bright hill-sides with your fairest flowers!
“Bravo!” cries Mr. Sansoucy, “never did troubadour
of Provence feel such ecstacy of delight at hearing his
own verses chaunted by the Queen of Love, at Aix!”
“Oh, how nice!” cries Bel.
“What 's mice, Miss Bel?”
“To call cousin Aurelia the Queen of Love!” cries
Bel, laughing merrily, and using her great eyes for Mr.
Sansoucy's benefit.
“She 's the queen of hearts!” cries Sansoucy, enthusiastically.
“But not Mr. Heartsease's!” replies Bel, with a shout
of laughter, in approbation of her first brilliant witticism.
“Heartsease!” murmurs Mr. Sansoucy, with a miserable
expression. “Heartsease! Never!”
“Never!” repeats Bel; “he never shall have cousin.”
“What a foolish child you are Bel,” Aurelia says, coloring
and laughing; “Mr. Sansoucy will think you are a
little chatter-box.”
“Oh, no he won't, cousin—will you, Mr. Sansoucy?”
“No, my little one.”
-- 427 --
[figure description] Page 427.[end figure description]
“For you know you said Liz and me were `cherubs'—
that was the very word!”
And the cherub laughs in a way eminently uncherubial.
“What nonsense we are all talking!” cries Aurelia, who
has regained all her merriment. “What nonsense! Only
suppose some author heard us, and was to set down every
word we say! How ridiculous it would be!—and everybody
would say he rioted in folly and frivolity.”
“Frivolity!” said Mr. Sansoucy, smiling too, “frivolity
is a terrible word, and knocks down more poor authors
than you could count. But, really, I don't see why we
should n't laugh and jest, my dear Aur—pardon! pardon!”
“There! that is a piece of folly, sir! and if you were
made a character in a book, the readers of the book would
say you were very impudent!” said Miss Aurelia, pouting.
“They would not;—they would admire me, and venerate
the lofty virtues which unbent themselves thus,
madam.”
“Oh, yes, certainly!”
“See, now, if they do not. I know a friend who writes
these frivolous romances: he lives in a garret, never stirs
out of town, even in the dog-days, and wears seedy garments,
as is proper in an author. Well, I will relate my
adventures to him, and we 'll all be put in a book! Think
of the honor! Yes, even you, mam'selles Bel and Liz,
will be immortalized—even down to your beaux yeux, little
Bel! I 'll buy a dozen copies—for your authors are
always out of money—and present a copy to each of you.”
“Oh, me! will you?” cries little Bel, with immense
eyes.
-- 428 -- p506-437
[figure description] Page 428.[end figure description]
“Indeed I will!”
“How nice!”
And little Bel claps her hands, in the midst of universal
laughter. As she does so, the sleigh mounts a slope, and
they see just beneath them the bridge they had caught
sight of from the distant eminence—and for some mysterious
and unexplained reason, Miss Aurelia's pouting lips
unclose, and permit to escape, in a murmur, this single
word:
“The bridge!”
CHAPTER II. HOW MR. SANSOUCY NEARLY RAN OVER A WOMAN, AND WHAT FOLLOWED.
Doubtless Mr. Sansoucy heard this faint exclamation,
for his countenance assumed an expression of mischievous
pleasure, wholly unmistakeable.
Did you speak, madam?” he said, politely.
“No, sir—”
“Really, now?”
“Not to you, at least.”
“Oh, yes—to the bridge. I forgot that you addressed
the bridge.”
“Why should I be so foolish as to apostrophize such a
thing?”
“Very true; and as this is ended, madam, we may proceed
to make our little arrangements.”
-- 429 --
[figure description] Page 429.[end figure description]
“Our little arrangements, sir!”
“Certainly!”
“Really, I am at a loss—”
“To understand?”
“Precisely, sir—at least—that is—”
And Miss Aurelia, detecting herself in the utterance
of a most unmistakeable fib, blushes ingenuously, and
murmurs:
“How foolish you are!”
Mr. Sansoucy laughs triumphantly, and says:
“Certainly we are foolish—both of us—and what makes
it more ridiculous—what will cause the readers of the
before-mentioned romance about us to cry out in deprecation—
is, that we are so old. You are nearly nineteen,
madam—or quite—I am at least a hundred.”
“Are you, sir?”
“Yes, and never have been married; what a shame!”
“Dreadful, sir!”
“Therefore, as we are so old, we need not discuss the
`little arrangements' among ourselves; but these children,
here, require instruction.”
Aurelia, with a laugh half of defiance, half of pleading,
murmurs:
“Oh, you will not—please don't!”
“Don't what, cousin?” says Bel, full of curiosity,
as she catches the faintly uttered words.
“I'll explain, Miss Isabella,” said Mr. Sansoucy, laughing.
“You must know, Miss, that in old times there was
an English law of custom making it proper, and even
necessary, to salute—in other words, kiss—young maidens
-- 430 --
[figure description] Page 430.[end figure description]
passing beneath the mistletoe bough hung from the
rafters. This custom has passed away—but it is replaced.
In modern times, every gentleman of proper feeling is
compelled to salute a lady who in riding with him in a
sleigh, crosses a bridge!”
“Oh!” cries Bel, wonderingly; “to kiss?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“So you and cousin—”
“Yes, exactly. You're a young lady of intelligence.
You have no cavalier, now, Liz. The consequence will
be that it will be necessary to salute each other—here
we are! Recollect, now!”
As Mr. Sansoucy spoke, the sleigh darted on the bridge—
but alas! for human anticipations.
His fairness, and open dealing as he afterwards said,
was his ruin. Aurelia, warned in advance, and on her
guard, no sooner saw the bridge imminently near, than
covering her face with her great white snow-ball ornamented
comfort, she held it securely, thus, defeating the
enemy completely.
Not wholly, however. The small white hand holding
up the comfort suddenly found itself in contact with a
pair of warm lips, which imprinted upon it a burning
salute; which circumstance caused the rosy face beneath
to present a striking contrast to the snowy worsted.
The merry party then fled onward, merrier than ever
and with laughter drowning all the silver chimes.
Aurelia declared that she had triumphed—Mr. Sansoucy
assured her that his utmost expectations had been
fulfilled; and in the middle of these protestations little
-- 431 --
[figure description] Page 431.[end figure description]
Bel burst into a laugh, and related how she had “acted
gentleman” and stolen her kiss, in obedience to instructions.
Soon after passing the bridge, Mr. Sansoucy looked at
his watch and said that it was time to return, if the ladies
were willing. The children were rebellious, but Aurelia
acquiesced; and so they came back as rapidly as they
went forth. This time Miss Aurelia enveloped her whole
head in her fur robe, and Mr. Sansoucy gave up in
despair;—and so they glided on again, talking and
laughing merrily.
The ride was, however, not to end without an incident.
The sleigh had reached a hill scarcely half a mile from
the city, and had commenced the rapid descent, when an
exclamation from Aurelia, to whom Mr. Sansoucy was
talking, caused that gentleman to suddenly turn his head,
and hold back his reins vigorously.
It was barely time to prevent the sleigh from running
over a woman, who had been walking in the middle of
the road, and who had been concealed from them by the
interposition of the steep hill.
The knee of one of the horses brushed her violently:
and starting back suddenly, she slipped upon the hard
road, and fell.
Nothing but the full exertion of his whole strength
enabled Mr. Sansoucy to retain the horses in their places;
but half resting on their vigorous haunches, they stopped,
trembling, and with necks curved into bows by the powerful
tension of the reins.
The woman, who was miserably clad, and had evidently
-- 432 --
[figure description] Page 432.[end figure description]
travelled far, rose to her feet, and removed from the road.
As she did so, she looked intently at Mr. Sansoucy, and
seemed to be startled and frightened.
“I hope you are not hurt—I was careless,” he said,
“the hill prevented me from seeing you.”
The woman continued to gaze at him, with the same
startled look, but said nothing.
“Are you hurt?” repeated Mr. Sansoucy, kindly.
She shook her head; but continued to stare at him.
“I am very glad,” he said, “it was unpardonable in me
to be so careless. You look poor, my good woman—
take this to make you forget my carelessness.”
And Mr. Sansoucy extended a piece of money toward
her; and threw it to her feet.
The woman did not take it up; but stared still at him:
then opening her lips, which were cracked with cold, she
said, with a foreign accent.
“Are you a son of Mr. Sansoucy of Sunnyside?”
“Yes,” he said, wonderingly, “do you know my father?”
An expression of wretchedness passed over the woman's
face; and she muttered:
“I thought so, I thought so! It would have been a
just punishment, if the horses had killed me!”
Mr. Sansoucy caught the last portion of the sentence,
and said:
“If they had killed you!”
“Yes,” said the woman, “I deserve it. It is only
another evidence of the mercy of heaven!”
The expression of Mr. Sansoucy's face, indicated such
-- 433 --
[figure description] Page 433.[end figure description]
profound astonishment, that the woman seemed to feel all
at once that she was speaking in riddles.
She looked at Aurelia and the children for a moment—
hesitated—then shook her head: and fixing her eyes on
Mr. Sansoucy's face again: said in the same low tone,
which she had employed throughout the conversation:
“Do you live in the city?”
“Yes,” he said, unable to say more.
“Where?” asked the woman.
Mr. Sansoucy unconsciously took a card from his pocket.
“Yes,” said the woman, “give it to me. I can read
well enough, though you may not think it from my appearance.
I looked better once.”
And extending her hand, she took the card, and placed
it in her ragged bosom.
“Drive on!” she said, “do not mind me: I am used
to walking.”
It was some moments before Mr. Sansoucy could collect
self-possession enough to offer to make room for the woman
in his sleigh. But she refused again; and taking no
notice of the coin, covered her head with an old blanket,
and took her way onward in silence toward the city.
Mr. Sansoucy gazed after her, shook his head in a way
which indicated a doubt of the woman's sanity, and then
giving the word to his horses, flew onward past the woman,
who was soon shut out from his view.
We need not chronicle the world of conjectures which
were made, and discussed, and dropped, by Mr. Sansoucy
and his companion. The insanity view, however, gained
the preëminence, and Aurelia shook her head pityingly:
-- 434 -- p506-443
[figure description] Page 434.[end figure description]
“The author who writes your adventures would scarcely
be able to explain this meeting,” she said, smiling, “it is
so strange.”
“We shall see,” was Mr. Sansoucy's reply.
And the sleigh darting into the street, fled onward, gaily
ringing as it went, and soon landed Miss Aurelia and the
children at their home.
CHAPTER III. RETURNS TO SOME OLD FRIENDS.
For two days, Mr. Sansoucy remained almost wholly
in his office; with a dubious sort of expectation, that the
strange woman he had encountered, would make her
appearance, and solve the mystery which enveloped her.
She did not come; and on the third morning, Mr. Sansoucy's
patience gave way, and he said aloud, “Well, so
my adventure ends—this woman was simply a crazy woman;
and I am crazy to expect anything. Still I had a
right to be surprised. To know that our estate is called
Sunnyside!—to know me from my likeness to my father
decidedly there are more things in heaven and earth than
are dreamed of in ordinary philosophy!”
And having come to this consolatory conclusion, the
journalist applied himself to his daily task, and having accomplished
it—proceeded to dine—after which he lit his
cigar, took up a novel—editors seldom read newspapers
for amusement—and set about enjoying himself.
-- 435 --
[figure description] Page 435.[end figure description]
The novel, which was one of Monsieur Dumas', entertained
him for a time; but soon he seemed to grow weary
of it.
“Mordious! sanydieu! parbleu!” observed Mr. Sansoucy,
as he laid it down, “what a genius for oaths, has
Monsieur D'Artagnan, and his friend Porthos! They
are delineated with immense genius and spirit—that is
granted: but why do they swear so! `Our army swore
terribly in Flanders, it is true—but it's a bad precedent—
and so my criticism ends. I wonder if that mysterious
woman was not, after all, a phantom—whether I did not
dream the whole affair, including the sleigh ride! No—
here is the proof!”
And with a guilty look, Mr. Sansoucy drew from the
breast pocket of his coat, one of the white balls of the
comfort, which had been torn off in the scene upon the
bridge—found by him in the bottom of the sleigh—and
since preserved with a care which said all that was
necessary, as to the state of this gentleman's feelings.
We believe it is conceded, that when an intelligent
man is guilty of a thing of this sort, he is in a very dangerous
condition.
The ball was soon restored to its pocket again, a ceremony
not very interesting, having been performed with
its assistance;—and then Mr. Sansoucy stretched himself,
and passing, in thought, from the worsted ball to its
mistress—from its mistress to the ball of another character—
thence to the dress she had worn—and thence again
to the recipient of the dress—Mr. Sansoucy, we say, came
-- 436 --
[figure description] Page 436.[end figure description]
by these various processes of thought, to reflect upon the
subject of his little friend, Ellie.
The result of these reflections was, that fifteen minutes
afterwards, the journalist rose, put on his overcoat, and
sallied forth with the intention of paying Ellie and Joe
Lacklitter a visit.
Let us leave the merry and happy personages, to whose
laughter we have just listened—Miss Aurelia, aiming at
perfecting herself in the execution of the May day song—
the old gentleman and lady listening to her—and Bel and
Lizzie discussing with bright, sparkling eyes, their brilliant,
joyous, fairylike excursion—let us leave these personages,
to whom, however, we shall soon return, and go
with Mr. Sansoucy to the old house in the opposite
quarter of the city, whose occupants we have lost sight of
for some time.
Joe Lacklitter seems to have felt the breath of the
coming spring, and has become almost well again. He
no longer totters about, and sits moping in the chimney
corner, and sighs. He is growing strong, and with every
day, appears to regain more and more of his old buoyancy
and good humor. This cheerfulness is not gained by himself,
only as the spring comes on—Ellie, too, becomes
happier; and when she raises her frank, tender eyes to
his face, with that look of gentleness and goodness, which
is her crowning charm, and chief beauty, the countenance
of the child is lovely, for its sweetness and holiness of
deep affection.
When we again enter the humble room in which the
poor newsman and his children have harbored themselves
-- 437 --
[figure description] Page 437.[end figure description]
from the winter's blast—which we have entered so often,
and whither we gladly go again—the countenance of
Ellie, as she sits by the small fire, reading to her uncle,
is a sight which might make a misanthrope forget his
bitterness, and smile. The child's soft brown hair has
escaped from the old ribbon with which she often binds
it, and falls in waving curls around her beautiful and
tender face; her eyes are soft and full of sweetness: her
parted lips smile with that gentle ingenuous expression,
which is the loveliest of all human looks, in man, or
woman, or child.
Ellie sits reading for some time: and then closing her
book, goes and gets her small brush, and crosses over to
Charley, who seems, from his rapt expression to be inventing
a fairy tale; and taking the curly head in her
arms, reduces the bunchy mass to a smooth and glossy
appearance, marking thus a great improvement in the
youthful poet's looks. Ellie stands still for a moment,
admiring the result of her skill, and then is going to some
work she has been doing, when she hears a step upon the
stairs.
She knows that step among a thousand, and with a
happy look, hastens toward the door.
With the passing days and weeks, an affection for him
has grown up in her heart, only second to her love for
her uncle and Charley. By some strange process, she
seems to anticipate all he says, to read his very thoughts,
to identify herself with him, and comprehend all he says,
and does, and even thinks, as by the working of a perfect
and all-embracing sympathy, binding the natures of the
-- 438 --
[figure description] Page 438.[end figure description]
man and child into one single organization—with a single
heart, sending the blood at once through two separate
beings.
She has sat for hours, thinking of him, and of his kindness;
and her eyes have filled with warm, happy tears,
as she has thought of all his goodness to herself and her
uncle. At such times he has seemed to her better than
all the whole world; and the world, blind and foolish,
and ignorant of its duty, not to rise up in one mass, and
honor him, and select him for their king! Then Ellie,
when her thoughts brought her to this point, would smile,
and rise from her seat, and say, “How silly I am!” But
again her heart would whisper, “It is not more than he
deserves, he is so good and kind,”—and she would stoutly
return to her previous opinion, that the whole wide world
contained no second man his equal! Surely to excite
such tenderness, and gratitude, and admiration in the
heart of a pure child, is better worth our while, than to
achieve many triumphs of the most distinguished description.
This is the feeling of the child toward the man, and
now with an instinct of affection, stronger than the Arab's
hatred-instinct, which scents in the horizon the approach
of his enemy, Ellie knows perfectly well when Mr. Sansoucy
is coming.
That is his step upon the stairs, and opening the door
before he has touched the knob, she says, timidly, but
confidingly:
“I knew it was you, sir,”
Her smile illuminates the whole apartment, and Mr.
-- 439 --
[figure description] Page 439.[end figure description]
Sansoucy scarcely knows that his hat is taken from his
hand.
“Why, Joe,” he says: “it seems to me that this
young woman is going to fly away, she looks so light and
gay.”
“Oh, uncle's getting well, and you have come—that
makes me glad, sir,” says Ellie.
“There! she's floored us with a double compliment,
Joe,” says Mr. Sansoucy, sitting down: “why, you are
nearly well.”
“Yes, indeed, I am, sir, and I know who done a good
part by me. I never will forget your kindness, sir—I
needn't tell you that.”
“Bother!”
“I'll pay back all the money you give me, soon,” said
Joe: “I feel like I could do anything now.”
“You shall take your time,” says Mr. Sansoucy: “say
a dollar a-year, for the next twenty years. But you may
drop that subject—here's some more.”
“Oh, no sir!” says Ellie, with glad pride in her face,
and holding back Mr. Sansoucy's arm, with a happy
little look: “we won't want any more, please, sir.”
“What do you mean?”
“I got the pay for my work yesterday.”
“Your work?”
“Yes, sir—from Mrs. Brown.
“Did you?”
“Yes, sir—see, here it is—a whole week's work.”
Mr. Sansoucy looked at the coin, and says:
“A whole week's work! Work a week for that?”
-- 440 --
[figure description] Page 440.[end figure description]
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“How many hours a day?”
“I don't know, sir—but from breakfast time to dinner
and supper—and a little at night.”
Mr. Sansoucy repeats, “a little at night—that is
all day!”
“Yes, sir.”
“And for this! Why, Ellie, I spend that much in
cigars in a single morning—and here you are, working
away your small fingers, and putting out your young eyes,
for—really,” said Mr. Sansoucy, breaking off suddenly,
“the world is a miserable humbug, and I despise it, root
and branch!”
Having stated his conviction upon this point, Mr. Sansoucy
drew from his pocket a bundle, and said:
“Here's something I purchased on the way;—do you
know how to make chocolate, Ellie?”
“No, sir—I'm afraid—”
“Well, I 'll show you. What a pity we have n't here a
friend of mine, of the name of Mr. Matthews, who makes
it to perfection. Every man, my child,” says Mr. Sansoucy,
with a philosophical air, “has his particular genius.
I knew a distinguished lawyer once, whose genius was
cutting out coats, cutting off hair, and pulling teeth.
Another of my friends has a genius which enables him to
discuss the abstrusest educational questions without a
single flower of rhetoric, question-begging appellative, or
poetical radiation—and my own genius I consider the
ability to write an editorial without selecting the subject,
or thinking while I write. This causes you to open your
-- 441 -- p506-450
[figure description] Page 441.[end figure description]
large, handsome eyes, Ellie; and, therefore, I suppose I
am trifling: but send that young man there for some
milk, and we 'll have some chocolate immediately.”
Ellie would have gone herself, but Mr. Sansoucy declared
that he would have Charley go; and so Charley
went, twisting his head over his shoulder to the last, to
gaze at Mr. Sansoucy, whom he seemed to regard as a
strange wild animal, exhibited for that occasion only.
In half an hour the chocolate was done, and Mr. Sansoucy
having produced some crackers from the other
pocket, the whole company regaled themselves in the most
friendly way imaginable.
CHAPTER IV. RECOUNTS THE MANIA OF MONSIEUR GUILLEMOT'S FRIEND, ANGELIQUE.
During the process of drinking the chocolate, to which
ceremony Mr. Sansoucy applied himself with the gusto of
a confirmed lover of that beverage, the journalist enquired
fully into Joe's prospects—promised to procure him a
better situation than any he had yet occupied, and also to
see to the welfare of the children. He need not thank
him, he added, as Joe began to speak: it was one of his
whims to help him and them—and he would follow his
whim.
By the time this was said the chocolate was finished, and
Mr. Sansoucy rose to take his departure.
-- 442 --
[figure description] Page 442.[end figure description]
Ellie brought his hat, and gave it to him with her
sweet, timid look; and wrapping his cloak around him,
Mr. Sansoucy, with his head down, stepped upon the
landing.
He found himself suddenly thrown up against the body
of an individual who was descending; and this individual
uttered the expression, “sacre!”—the latter portion being
spoken as though the word was spelled with a multiplicity
of r's.
“Why, it 's Guillemot!” said Mr. Sansoucy. “How
do you do, Monsieur Guillemot? I have not seen you
since—since that unhappy affair at the gallery.”
And the speaker's face clouded with an expression of
sadness as he thought of his friend.
“Mistare Sansoueí! Aha!” said the Frenchman, with
his polite grimace; “I am charm to see you, Mossieu!”
“And I as pleased to see you, Monsieur Guillemot.”
The Frenchman shook his head.
“People was please once, Mossieu!” he said.
“Once?”
“When Guillemot was flourish, Mossieu Sansoucí.
Tees not so now. Poor Guillemot is bank-a-root. Zey
no pay, Mossieu—zey no pay poor Guillemot; he is
bank-a-root!”
And having communicated this information with the
most delightful good humor and satisfaction, Monsieur
Guillemot shrugged his shoulders, turned out his hands,
raised his eyebrows, and added—
“Tees true—tees very true!”
Sansoucy looked at him with a smile.
-- 443 --
[figure description] Page 443.[end figure description]
“Judging from your dress, Monsieur Guillemot,” he
said, “I should think, that instead of being bankrupt, you
had just come into your property.”
Monsieur Guillemot, in fact, was clad with great elegance,
and the frill of his shirt bosom seemed alone able
to support his chin.
Ah! non, non!” he said, however, with a modest air,
“'tis notting, mon cher ami—'tis only a leetle toilette I
make to enterprise one dame.”
“A lady?”
“Ah, oui—one lady. You will come see her, Mossieu,
mon ami—you shall give me opinion she shall see what
distinguish friend I 'ave.”
“Make a call with you?”
“I only pass—seulement.”
“Certainly, I'll go then.”
And very much amused, Mr. Sansoucy made a farewell
sign to Joe Lacklitter and Ellie, who had listened to this
conversation, and then followed Monsieur Guillemot.
He was not destined to leave the house, however, without
having his attention called to an additional personage.
This personage was a lady clad in a brown dress, and
well wrapped up, who, with her veil down, and an air of
abstraction, ascended the stairs as the two men came
down.
The polite Frenchman leaped aside, making a profusion
of bows,—indeed, we are not quite sure that Monsienr
Guillemot did not seriously contemplate mounting the
railing, or getting upon the ledge outside, or performing
some other act, indicative of an extreme desire to permit
-- 444 --
[figure description] Page 444.[end figure description]
the lady to pass without brushing him. As for Mr. Sansoucy,
he simply drew to one side, as closely as possible:
and thus in the bent position of his body the lady passed
as it were beneath his chin, and disappeared at the turn
of the staircase.
“It seems that some one here has a lady friend,” he
said, as they again descended.
Ah, oui, Mossieu! I see her often,” was Guillemot's
reply.
“Her face?”
“Non, Mossieu—her veil always cover it.”
“Very well, my dear friend—but what have we here,”
said Mr. Sansoucy, stooping and raising from the threshold
of the outer door, upon which it had dropped, a
printed paper: this must have fallen from the unknown
lady's reticule: why it's a tract.”
And looking for the title he read the words: “Faith,
Hope, Charity.”
He remained silent for a moment, and then shaking his
head, muttered:
“I doubt the utility of tracts alone, when those for
whom they are intended suffer for want of bread. This
lady, doubtless, is benevolent—perhaps in her high sphere,
cannot realize the wants of the poor: for I discerned a
very delicate and costly perfume as she passed—so, doubtless
she is rich. Nevertheless let me not judge. I'll keep
the tract: come, my dear Monsieur Guillemot.”
And putting the paper in his pocket, Mr. Sansoucy
took his companion's arm, and they proceeded toward
the abode of Monsieur Guillemot's lady friend. They
-- 445 --
[figure description] Page 445.[end figure description]
talked as they went: and the lady they were going to see
furnished the subject of their conversation.
Like all Frenchmen, Monsieur Guillemot speedily put
his friend in possession of his whole love affair. “One
dame,” was the sister of a shopkeeper not far from the
house they issued from, and this dame was well known in
the neighborhood, as the possessor of a very pretty piece
of property which brought her in a desirable income.
The dame was in addition to this, possessed of the various
charms of a good-humored face, a figure inclined to
embonpoint, and the ripe age of forty. She had been long
looking for a husband it seemed, exactly to her taste: but
had failed nevertheless to find her beau ideal. Angelique—
it was Monsieur Guillemot's poetical designation of
her—Angelique, it seemed, desired ardently to possess a
husband of the first elegance and breeding—a fine gentleman
in a word; and once her ambition had reached even
as high as a foreign count. But this hope seemed difficult
of realization—and after falling successively from count to
viscount and baron—and so down to the lowest possible
order of nobility, a baronet—she had made up her mind
to accept even a poor gentleman, if he were elegant, and
would carry her from the sphere which could not appreciate
the delicate and poetical nature of her mental organization.
Madame Angelique, it further appeared, had at
one time encouraged the advances of Captain Schminky,
in consideration of his well-to-do condition in the world:
and even still she regarded the grocer with an amount of
favor which caused his rival, it was evident, no small
uneasiness. Captain Schminky would, doubtless, have
-- 446 -- p506-455
[figure description] Page 446.[end figure description]
become the owner of the dame, her property, and charms
generally; but just as she was on the point of yielding to the
dictates of prudence, and worldly wisdom, Monsieur Guillemot
had appeared, with all his graces, and revived once
more in her heart that passion for the elegant and recherche
which was her weakness. Monsieur Guillemot's origin on
a small estate in Gascony gave him the right to the title
of chevalier; and as soon as Madame Angelique heard
the word, her heart began to beat, her prudential considerations
to disappear; and at the moment when Monsieur
Guillemot met his friend, Mr. Sansoucy, the rivals
were balanced almost equally in those imaginary scales in
which were weighed the desirabilities of Madam's suitors.
It was Madam Angelique that Monsieur Guillemot was
destined to see for a moment in passing: and he felt not
a little satisfaction in showing the mistress of his heart
what a fine looking gentleman he called his friend.
He was modestly suggesting that perhaps Mr. Sansoucy's
designation of him as “Monsieur Guillemot, my
friend,” would aid his prospects when they arrived at the
abode of Madam Angelique.
CHAPTER V. MADAME ANGELIQUE'S CONTRIBUTION TO THE FAIR.
“Angelique” was the sister of the low browed gentleman
who had given Ellie one tenth of the value of her
baby's dress, in exchange for that garment.
-- 447 --
[figure description] Page 447.[end figure description]
He was standing behind his counter now; and no
doubt, the worthy merchant expected his visitors to
purchase something in exchange for the pleasure they
experienced in entering his shop. If this were his expectation,
however, he was disappointed; for Monsieur
Guillemot passed through the shop with the ease of a
man who had frequently done so before, and followed by
Mr. Sansoucy, at whom the proprietor scowled, coarsely,
as indeed he did also at the Frenchman, made his way
into the room just back of the shop.
Angelique was being entertained by Captain Schminky,
and was just the lady described by Monsieur Guillemot.
“Ah, my dear Madam—and mon cher Capitaine,” said
Guillemot, with a lively air, “charm to see you. Permit,
Madam, that I present Monsieur mon ami—Mistâre Sansouc
ì.”
The individuals bowed: Mr. Sansoucy, with great
politeness, which was very sincere—madam, with a little
flutter, such as she considered proper, under the circumstances.
As for Captain Schminky, he seemed to be paralyzed
by the appearance of Monsieur Guillemot, and sat with
his mouth open, in utter bewilderment.
“If it please the beautiful Angelique,” said Monsieur
Guillemot, imprinting a gallant kiss upon the lady's
chubby fingers, “I will now take the commission of
Madam.”
“Oh, yes, Monsher Gillymore,” said the lady, rising
with the assistance of a smelling bottle and a fan, “I will
bring it.”
-- 448 --
[figure description] Page 448.[end figure description]
And with a languishing look, she crossed the small
room, and issued forth into the shop. As she did so, Mr.
Sansoucy discovered that he had dropped his gloves; and
remembering that he had left them on the chair he had
occupied in Joe Lacklitter's room, told Monsieur Guillemot
to await his return, and sallied forth to recover
them.
He had scarcely left the shop, when a woman came in,
and after standing for a moment, looking around her,
caught sight of Captain Schminky, through the open door
of the inner room. This woman was wretchedly clad,
wore, for sole wrapping, an old tattered blanket, and her
face was cut and cracked by the bitter wind.
It was the same woman who had been nearly run over
by Mr. Sansoucy, three days before.
She stood for a moment, looking at Captain Schminky,
with eyes which seemed to dart flames of rage: and then,
striding into the back room, planted herself erect before
him, and threw back the tattered bonnet which had concealed
her face.
No sooner had Captain Schminky caught sight of her
countenance—no sooner had he found those eyes, which
seemed to be well known to him, fixed upon his face,—
than, rising with a leap, he seized his hat, rushed by the
woman, who stood with folded arms, looking down on
him—and fled ignominiously from the shop.
The woman looked after him, a moment; gazed coldly
at Monsieur Guillemot, who directed, nevertheless, toward
her, one of his most enchanting smiles; and then with a
stare of defiance and rage at Madam Angelique, which
-- 449 --
[figure description] Page 449.[end figure description]
nearly took that lady's breath away, strode from the house
as she had entered it.
Monsieur Guillemot had scarcely time to observe, that
in all his various travels, he had seen many curious and
astounding “tableaux,” but never anything quite equal
to that; and Madam Angelique had said nothing at all,
when Mr. Sansoucy made his appearance, with the gloves
in his hand. Ellie had caught sight of them, ten minutes
after his departure—had picked them up, quickly—and
thinking Mr. Sansoucy had not gone far, hastened after
him, her brown hair uncovered, and the wind making her
shiver. He had met her half way, taken the gloves, with
a kind speech, which would have rewarded Ellie for a
thousand times as much trouble, and so returned to the
shop just in time to be too late.
The forgetfulness of Mr. Sansoucy in leaving his gloves,
had much to do with the further progress of this history.
When he entered the shop again, as we have said, Monsieur
Guillemot was expressing his philosophical astonishment
at the incident which had just occurred. But, upon
the entrance of his friend, he paused. Having studied
profoundly the character of Angelique, with the view of
making her Madam Guillemot, he had not failed to perceive
that one of the weak points of the angelic being was
a horror for whatever appeared coarse, abrupt, and vulgar.
He was just about to enter upon a description of the
late event, when this thought occurred to him—but he
promptly restrained himself; and was rewarded by Angelique
with a smile, which he understood perfectly.
Madam Angelique did not give Mr. Sansoucy time to
-- 450 --
[figure description] Page 450.[end figure description]
ask the cause for Captain Schminky's abrupt departure,
and haste in walking away: she immediately introduced
the subject of the Fair, for the benefit of the poor, to
which Monsieur Guillemot was about to take a contribution
on the part of the lady.
“Monsher Gillymore is very obliging,” said the lady,
in a flutter, and waving her fan, which really did seem
useless in the then state of the atmosphere; but perhaps
it was a habit she could not break herself of, “I am sure I
am very much obliged to him.”
“The words are pearls: are they not diamonds!” said
Monsieur Guillemot, enthusiastically.
“Oh, go away, you flattering creature!”
“Not so—not so, beautiful Angelique, I never flatter.”
“Monsher Gillymore, you men are terrible creatures,
and you do not make any allowances for the nervous and
susceptible”—
“No allowance!” cried Monsieur Guillemot, “but I
cannot stay to refute this so terreeble charge. Monsieur,
mon ami, grows impatient.”
And disregarding Sansoucy's polite denial of this imputation,
Monsieur Guillemot held out his hand for the
package.
“What is here?” he asked, prying curiously at the
bundle.
“Oh, nothing, nothing!” said the lady, smiling.
“Bon!” said Monsieur Guillemot, “I shall not be
fatigue.”
And with his hand upon his heart, he made the lady the
lowest and most splendid bow.
-- 451 --
[figure description] Page 451.[end figure description]
“Oh, Monsieur Guillemot, my dearest friend, my worthy
teacher, and friend,” said Sansoucy, suppressing his
laughter, “you are really the most elegant man I have
ever known. The woman who is so fortunate as to secure
you, my dear friend, will possess one of the most amiable
and courteous gentlemen I have ever known.”
And having made this speech, which was perfectly sincere,
Mr. Sansoucy made a low bow upon his own part,
and they issued forth.
“I think that I am marry already,” said Monsieur Guillemot,
at the summit of felicity.
“A good-humored and pleasing lady,” said Sansoucy.
“Is she not?” cried Monsieur Guillemot, enthusiastically,
“I rejoice, I mount my wings, I fly, Mossieu, mon ami!”
And with the gayety of a boy, who has a holiday granted
to him, Monsieur Guillemot hastened onward by the side
of his friend, smiling and joyful. Turning, however, he
saw an expression upon Mr. Sansoucy's face, which was
rather satirical; and this caused Monsieur Guillemot to
suddenly become grave.
“Ah, Mossieu, mon ami,” he said, “you do me ver great
anjoosteese. It is true I visit this lady first from what you
call mercenary motive: but that is pass. She is good, she
is jolie, she is parfaitement, devoted to poor Guillemot—'
tis a good dame, a ver honest pèrsonàge—she will make
good wife for Guillemot, who grow old—who is bank-a-root,
mon ami: but who possesses still quite enough de
l'argent to live. I want wife, Mossien, mon ami—she will
make good wife: ver good wife.”
“I don't doubt it, my dear friend,” said Sansoucy,
-- 452 -- p506-461
[figure description] Page 452.[end figure description]
“and if I forget for a moment, that at your period of life,
men ask only a cheerful and affectionate companion—
faith! any man might be satisfied with that, I think—if I
forget this—pardon me. You will have such a wife—for
you will get Madam Angelique without doubt.”
“Sans doute! you say sans doute, then it is a fact
accomplished!”
And Monsieur Guillemot, with all the gayety of a boy,
hastened on, passing from one hand to the other the
package delivered to him for deposite at the fair by the
mistress of his heart.
That package contained, among other things, the elegant
child's dress, and lace cap, brought to the shop and sold
in her necessity, by Ellie.
CHAPTER VI. HOW THE LADY HAD AN INTERVIEW WITH LUCIA.
Ellie stood for some moments following Mr. Sansoucy
with her eyes, which a glad, happy light made beautiful
and touching;—and then as he disappeared with Monsieur
Guillemot, slowly retraced her steps up the old stair-case,
murmuring “How kindly he smiled on me!”
The lady we have seen ascend as Mr. Sansoucy came
down, was seated in the room of Joe Lacklitter; and
Ellie, indeed, had left her with some abruptness, upon
finding the missing gloves.
As she entered, now, the lady looked at her with a
smile, and said kindly:
-- 453 --
[figure description] Page 453.[end figure description]
“You seem to be very eager to save your friend
trouble!”
“Oh, yes, ma'am.”
“You are?”
“Yes, indeed, ma'am—I would do anything in the
world I could, for him.”
“Is he kind?”
“Oh, so good and kind!”
And as if her whole heart had spoken in these words,
Ellie remained silent.
The lady's face showed how much she was pleased by
the simplicity and sincerity of the child's tone, and she
said:
“You have a warm, true heart, Ellie; and I think
your uncle is very fortunate to have so good a little
daughter. Now I want to tell you why I came. Here
are some things I wish you to work for me. I think your
patterns are more graceful than any I find in the stores,
and I want you to make this collar after your own fancy.”
Ellie took it with a proud little look, and said indeed
she would try to do it as well as she possibly could.
“I know that will be well,” said the lady, “for your
taste in these things is really extraordinary, Ellie. I can
scarcely understand how you ever acquired it.”
“Mother taught me, ma'am,” said Ellie; “she worked
beautiful things.”
“Your mother?”
“Yes, ma'am—she's dead, you know: but she was
good, and she's gone to heaven.”
The lady again listened with evident pleasure to the
-- 454 --
[figure description] Page 454.[end figure description]
sincere voice of the child; and for a moment was silent.
Then she said:
“Do you expect to see your mother again, Ellie?”
“Yes, ma'am—oh, yes! if I am good, and do my
duty.”
The answer concluded the subject; and when the lady
spoke again it was on the matter which had brought her:
and this being dispatched, she entered into conversation
with Joe as to his present and prospective condition.
Uncle Joe launched forth into the subject with rude
eloquence, and said that he had had a hard time of it
during the winter, but hoped to make up for every thing
in the spring. He would have had a hard time, that is,
he said, if it had not been for Ellie and Mr. Sansoucy:—
and then Uncle Joe commenced and related in all their
detail the tender solicitude of the child for him—her
struggles, labors, suffering—every thing. Like Othello,
Uncle Joe ran through the events of the winter “even to
the present hour”—and the picture thus drawn of the
child's disinterested affection and devotion, evidently
touched, and produced a deep effect upon the lady.
She gazed at the child so kindly and lovingly that
Ellie's head sank, and her eyes filled with tears of childish
pride, and love, and gratitude.
“Here are some tracts, Ellie,” said the lady, with a
slight color in her cheek; “I thought you would like to
have them:—but I think I should learn from you, instead
of you from me.”
And rising, the lady asked if the little organ-girl were
in her room.
-- 455 --
[figure description] Page 455.[end figure description]
“Yes, ma'am, I think she is,” replied Ellie, sadly; “I saw
her this morning, and she don't seem very well. Will
you go and see her, ma'am?”
“Oh! yes—I came to see her, too!”
And bidding Uncle Joe farewell, the lady went out
and proceeded to Lucia's room.
Lucia was sitting by a small fire which Ellie had made
for her from a portion of her own wood; and when the
lady entered, was looking into the fire with a faint, wistful
smile, so deep in its sadness, yet so trusting and submissive,
that it made her thin, white countenance more
beautiful than words can describe. Always of fair and
tender beauty, Lucia's loveliness had been sublimated by
these trying dispensations which she had undergone; and
now she seemed, with her pale, wistful face, and large,
sad eyes, more like a blessed inhabitant of the other world,
than an actual child of flesh and blood, weak and unarmed
against the cold blasts of poverty and want.
Since we last saw her, when, sitting, bent down, on the
steps, she sighed “aunt Phillis, Oh! aunt Phillis!—why
can't I go with you!”—a great change has come over the
little organ-girl; and she seems now to have detached her
thoughts almost entirely from earth, and to have entered
upon an existence, unclogged by worldly cares and wants,
unaffected by the coldest blasts of the bitter winter storm.
In that serene region heaven itself seems to have opened
upon her: and with earth no longer in her vision, her
thoughts appear to have mounted to the pure empyrean
of perfect and unchangeable love: where the sunshine of
heaven gilds the faces of the great multitude of all climes
-- 456 --
[figure description] Page 456.[end figure description]
and nations, and people and tongues, singing forever in
the light of an eternal dawn.
The expression of the child, as she bends down thus,
her dark hair half veiling her thin white cheek, and falling
on the pages of the book she has been reading, is so
striking, that the lady pauses for a moment on the
threshold, and looks at her, motionless, and in silence.
She says, at last, in her kind voice, “Lucia!”—and
the child turns, and recognizes her, and with a faint
color in her cheeks, rises to her feet, returns the smile,
and murmurs her thanks for the visit.
“Oh, no, Lucia, you need not thank me,” says the
lady, taking her thin hand, and gazing with tender pity
into the sad, smiling face: “you need not thank me.
But I am sorry to see you looking so pale and thin.”
“I don't feel badly, ma'am,” says Lucia; “and Ellie
has made me a good fire.”
“Ellie?”
“Yes, ma'am—she is very kind: and I am afraid makes
herself uncomfortable to help me.”
“She's a good child: but you have had some dinner,
Lucia?”
“Yes, ma'am, Ellie gave me some.”
And a faint tinge of shame, which has come into her
cheek, glows deeper, and more apparent. The singular
pride of the poor child is wounded, and she returns thus
to earth, as it were, and blushes at her own helplessness
and dependence.
“You shall not depend upon Ellie,” the lady says:
“you shall depend on me—I will assist you—”
-- 457 --
[figure description] Page 457.[end figure description]
“Oh, no, no, ma'am,” murmurs Lucia: “I couldn't—
I don't think I could—accept—”
“But you must: you have no friends who—”
“Oh, yes, ma'am.”
And the child's face is covered with blushes.
“You have a friend besides Ellie? What is his
name?”
Lucia cannot utter the name of Sam, and only bends
down, blushing. All the long, weary time from the death
of Aunt Phillis, Wide-Awake has kept near her, visiting
her whenever he could, and supplying her wants, without
knowing what a deep wound to the child's pride, everything
he supplied caused her. The tenderness toward
him, which has grown up in her heart, gradually has
made this all the more trying: and the bitterest regret
that Lucia has felt, has been the necessity of this dependence.
When the lady, therefore, asks what other friend
she has, the child's face colors deeply, and the faint murmured
reply is unintelligible.
The lady gazes at her face a moment with profound
pity—and then asks her if she cannot do some sewing.
Lucia says that Ellie has given her some common work
to do from her own, and she has not even been able to
perform this. Her life, so wandering and adverse, has
not enabled her to learn; and the money given to her by
Ellie, has been simple charity.
The lady sighs, as she listens to the faltering accents,
and says that then she will try to procure something else
for her: meanwhile she must accept what she gives her.
“Oh, no, no, ma'am!” Lucia says, drawing back; “I
-- 458 -- p506-467
[figure description] Page 458.[end figure description]
cannot!—oh! I cannot! It is false pride, ma'am, I
know, and I am afraid it's wicked; but, indeed, indeed, I
cannot.”
The lady's head sinks, and she looks at the child with
a wistful expression, which is hard to read.
“Well, Lucia,” she says: “I can understand your
pride—but I must assist you. Indeed I must—until you
are able to assist yourself. I will send you something,
this very morning. It is our duty, and I think it a very
great privilege—that is, I begin to think it.”
And with a slight tremor in her voice, the lady bids
the child good-bye, and turns toward the door.
As she does so, Wide-Awake comes in.
CHAPTER VII. HOW WIDE-AWAKE AND LUCIA ARRANGED THEIR PLANS.
Wide-Awake did not look as merry and joyous as
usual:—his hat was not so much upon the side of his
head: his hands were not so deeply sunken in his
pockets.
When Wide-Awake presented this appearance, his
friends were accustomed to declare that he was under a
cloud; and it really did seem upon the present occasion,
as if the state of feeling indicated by this figurative expression,
existed in the case of the personage in question.
Wide-Awake's first look and word was for Lucia; but
-- 459 --
[figure description] Page 459.[end figure description]
seeing the lady, he doffed his hat, and ducked his head in
recognition of her presence.
The lady returned his salute, but did not wait for him
to speak. She wrapped herself again in her robe, lowered
her veil, and with a kind word to Lucia, went out and
descended the stairs.
“Who's that, Lucia?” said Wide-Awake, looking
after her.
“A good lady, who has been to see me two or three
times, Sam,” said Lucia.
“I knew she was good!” said Wide-Awake, with a
melancholy sort of humor; “I knew she was, d'rectly I
saw her face.”
“Indeed, she is.”
“Is she kind to you?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Then I'm goin' to die for her—I am.
And having made this solemn promise, Wide-Awake
sat down, passed his hat through his fingers, and gazed
sadly and wistfully at Lucia, who had resumed her former
seat.
The sight of the child's thin and pale cheeks seemed to
fill Wide-Awake with the deepest gloom. His eyelids
drooped—his breast heaved with a sigh, and shaking his
head, he said, sorrowfully:
“Oh, Lucia! Lucia! you don't care nothin' for me!”
“Don't care!—oh, indeed, I do.”
And Lucia's sad face turns toward Wide-Awake, a
slight color in the pale cheeks, and a smile upon the lips,
-- 460 --
[figure description] Page 460.[end figure description]
which causes the person addressed to sigh more profoundly
than ever.
“No, you don't—oh, no, you don't!” he says; “if
you did, you'd do what I asked you.”
“What you asked me?”
“Eat more, and not be down-hearted, and laugh.”
Lucia smiles, and says:
“I am not down-hearted, Sam.”
“You aint!” cries Wide-Awake.
“No, indeed, I am not; I am very happy.”
And Lucia's eye falls upon the book she has been
reading.
“There! that explains all,” says her companion,
groaning. “Yes! you are happy, and you aint down-hearted—
and for why? Because you think you aint long
for this world!”
And Wide-Awake covers his eye and dashes away what
he pretends is a grain of dust.
“None of us know when we will die, Sam,” says Lucia,
softly.
“But you are thinkin' you won't last long.”
“I don't know, Sam.”
“Oh, Lucia!” he says, “what are you a-thinkin' and
talkin' in this way for! What are you a-dreamin' 'bout
the t'other world for! Aint this a mighty pretty world,
with all the flowers, and summer days, and goin' in the
country! Aint this a good place to live in!”
Lucia looks sadly through the window at the roofs
covered with snow, over which the chill winds are careering.
Wide-Awake answers her:
-- 461 --
[figure description] Page 461.[end figure description]
“Yes! you mean it's cold, and bitter, and miserable,”
he says, with a deep sigh; “you don't see anything to
look forward to! Oh, Lucia!”
And Wide-Awake actually sobs.
“Don't—don't, Sam!” she says, taking away the hand
he has covered his eyes with; “don't do that! you will
make me cry, too! Oh, don't—please don't, Sam!”
“Well, I wont! I'm a fool, and that's the whole of
it!”
“Oh, you are so kind, Sam!”
“I'm a rascal—I am! To come here a-makin' you
sorry and tired with my talk. But I wont do it agi'n—I
wont.”
And Wide-Awake assumes a cheerful and encouraging
look, and says:
“Really, Lucia—come to look at you, now, you're
happier lookin' than you've been for a week.”
“I feel very happy.”
“But the spring's comin', and you'll be happier. It's
so pretty!”
“Oh, beautiful,” Lucia says, with a warm light in her
eyes like a May morning; “beautiful, Sam! The
flowers, and warm days, and birds—Oh, how I love the
spring!”
The satisfaction—nay the deep delight—of Wide-Awake
as he listened to these words, seemed to change his whole
features. In a moment he was almost the same old
laughing, joyous Wide-Awake; full of ridiculous fancies,
and making every body laugh who approached him, with
his own contagious merriment.
-- 462 --
[figure description] Page 462.[end figure description]
“Hoora!” cried Wide-Awake, waving his cap, “aint
it good to hear you talkin' so, Lucia! I say it aint good—
oh, no!”
And Wide-Awake laughed in derision at his own positive
assurance of the fact.
“I'm glad you like to hear me talk so, Sam,” said
Lucia, smiling sweetly, “and indeed I feel it. The spring
is so lovely! Every thing seems to be young, and
pure, and tender—it seems as if there wasn't anything
bad in the whole world, and as if everybody loved each
other.”
“So it does!”
“I never could believe there was any cold, or want, or
unhappiness, when once the spring had come. The sunshine
seems to laugh, you know.”
“And the birds singing—!”
“It is very sweet.”
“And the flowers—the violets and them!”
“I love violets very much,” says Lucia, gently, and
smiling as she looked in Wide-Awake's enthusiastic face.
“That's enough,” he says, “I'll git the first of the
season for you, Lucia.”
“Oh, will you!”
“If I don't—well,” said Wide-Awake; “that ain't the
word to be said here—that ain't. But I'll do it!”
And Wide-Awake scowled at winter through the window
with a gaze of such defiance, that it was a wonder
all the snow did not melt and run away, and disappear
before it.
“You are very good and kind, Sam,” said Lucia, gently,
-- 463 --
[figure description] Page 463.[end figure description]
“and I'm only afraid you're too kind. Please, Sam, don't
spend any more of your money for things for me.”
“My money?”
“Yes.”
“Lord help you,” said Wide-Awake, “What could I
do with it. You got to have it, or I'll chuck it to some
young villain at the theatre door. I never ken rest till
I'm dry as a bean. I've throwed quarters out into the
river often to see which went furthest:—money! when I
got it 'taint nothin'. I'm miserable, I am, till its spent!”
And Wide-Awake looked as if his pockets were wholly
empty. His harangue was only partly true; he had not
for a long time now sought any of his customary diversions—
and he had lived often on a crust for a whole day,
in order that Lucia might have something nice and delicate—
such as her poor appetite required. This and more
had been done by the honest Wide-Awake, and he had
made himself a perfect moving mountain of newspapers—
worked himself like a wood and iron machine—descended
even to a coal-carrier, to provide what Lucia needed.
The child knew it perfectly well; and this had caused her
to blush when the lady's question, brought Wide-Awake's
devotion to her mind: this knowledge now made her blush
again. Wide-Awake saw the blush and understood it.
“Now don't be talkin' 'bout that, Lucia,” he said,
“we'ere friends, and I ain't agoin' to desert a friend.
The idee of desertin' you seems—well, I dunno how it
seems: ridicklus'il, do, I spose.”
“Oh, Sam! you are too kind—and I am very, very
miserable to clog you in this way. Don't look so
-- 464 --
[figure description] Page 464.[end figure description]
gloomily,” she said, “I wont say any more: but please
don't send me anything else. I—I—do very well. Now
talk to me about the flowers again—the beautiful flowers.”
And with a sad sweet smile upon her face, Lucia
seemed to see the tender banks of violets, and wander
over sunny slopes and meadows, as a child should.
Wide-Awake's blood seemed to ebb and flow with hers:
and the happy expression of her countenance dissipated
all his gloom again.
“Talk about the flowers! I will that,” he said, “and
we'll see 'em, too.
“Oh, shall we?”
“Yes, we shell, Lucia—as I'm a livin' human bein'.
We'll go into the country—far away from this here place.
Didn't you hear that hymn, when Aunty Phillis died—I
see you that day—but you didn't see me; which ain't
seldom,” added Wide-Awake. “Don't you ricklect what
they sung: `Oh, come and will you go—will you go—
will you go!' seems to me that thing's been a runnin' in
my head ever sence.”
“And so has it in mine,” said Lucia with a far-away
look.
“It means heaven, I reckon,” said Wide-Awake, “but
I don't know nothin' 'bout heaven—I don't.”
“Oh, it's a place of perfect happiness,” replied Lucia;
“and God says that no one can even conceive such happiness!”
“That's strange!” said Wide-Awake, “can it be happier'
an a May mornin' in the fields?”
“Oh, yes.”
-- 465 --
[figure description] Page 465.[end figure description]
“What makes it so?”
“God's love,” said Lucia, softly.
Wide-Awake's mind was evidently engaged in the effort
to comprehend this reply, when Lucia said:
“If we love each other, and are kind, and obey God,
we will go to heaven, Sam. Jesus says he will prepare a
place for us.”
“It's mighty hard to be kind and lovin' in this wicked
and deceitful world,” said Wide-Awake, shaking his head,
“there's so much to make a feller grit his teeth—'specially
here in town. Heaven! heaven! it seems like a glory,
Lucia!” he said, with wide eyes; “but it's hard to see it
here.”
“Yes, but we may, by faith.”
“In the country I feel better, somehow—I do,” continued
Wide-Awake, “and the birds and flowers and
streams make me glad.”
“And me, too!”
“We're goin' there.”
“I shall be so glad.”
“Will you?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Won't we have a time—won't we have a glorious
time!” cried Wide-Awake carried away by the idea of
wandering with Lucia over flowery meadows, along the
banks of merry streams, “won't we be happy! Oh,
Lucia! what times we'll have:—I'm as happy as a lark!”
And Wide-Awake threw up his hat, and laughed aloud.
“How sweet the banks are when the sun shines,” said
Lucia, smiling dreamily, “I would like to be buried in a
-- 466 --
[figure description] Page 466.[end figure description]
place just like the hill covered with flowers, on the opposite
side of the river—you know, Sam! It would be like
falling asleep, you know, in the happy sunshine. But
you don't like to think of this as I do. We will go over
there—won't we? Won't you take me?”
“Take you!” cried Wide-Awake, from whose face
the cloud passed as rapidly as a shadow of April. “Will
I take you! I'll hire a chariot and six horses, and drive
you myself.”
“Oh, that would not be half so nice,” said Lucia,
smiling, sweetly. “We will walk.”
“And I'll gather violets and roses, and make you a
wreath, Lucia—my hands are big and clumsy, but I can
do anything when I work for you! We'll spend all the
mornin's in the beautiful fields, and have a pic nic by the
stream, and then we'll come home in the warm, nice
evenin', singin'—singin'! You'll be singin', and I'll be
happy, Lucia—Oh, so happy with you!”
And Wide-Awake's rapt look fell on the blushing face
of Lucia, in which his picture of the happy May-day,
had conjured up as much delight as was visible in his
own.
It was a beautiful and touching spectacle—these two
children, thus forgetting the freezing wind, the dying fire,
the cramping city, the want and suffering, and grief of
their hard lot—to wander forth, in thought, over flowery
fields, and by murmuring streams—streams laughing and
limpid, with heaven over them, and made to mirror, in
their bright surface, the skies and flowers, and leaves, and
faces of the children, brighter than sky or flower! Strange
-- 467 --
[figure description] Page 467.[end figure description]
fancy of the poor boy and the destitute girl, crouching thus
over a few embers, and yet rising from the low earth of
reality to the bright sunshine of the imagination! Thank
heaven, that the chillest winds of want and suffering cannot
tread out wholly what God placed in children—what
lives there, silently protesting against shameful oppression,
and neglect, and cruelty—whatever will remain thus
a silent but all-powerful protest against what arrays itself
against it!
It was not until the night had filled the poor chamber,
that the boy and the child parted.
Wide-Awake was going straight to lay out all his
money for Lucia, when he encountered, on the steps, Captain
Schminky's shop-boy, who, with a haughty expression,
looked about for some one—whose name was written
on a card he held.
Wide-Awake read the name over his shoulder, and
snatching from his hands the bundle, carried it straight to
Lucia—the shop-boy retreating immediately before the
dreadful Wide-Awake, who even dared to defy his
master.
It was the gift of the lady; and Wide-Awake was
more enthusiastic in his expressions of regard and admiration
for her, than even the child.
He prepared Lucia's supper from the abundant supply
of edibles: fixed everything with a wistful, smiling, submissive
air; and then, holding out his hand, said almost
timidly,
“Good-bye, Lucia—may I come again to-morrow.”
“Oh, Sam! how can you ask!”
-- 468 -- p506-477
[figure description] Page 468.[end figure description]
“Do you like me any—do you think, Lucia?” said
Wide-Awake, bashfully.
“You are my kind, good friend,” said Lucia, sweetly,
giving him her thin hand, “indeed, I like you, very much,
Sam.”
That was enough—Wide-Awake wished to hear no
more—he made his exit, with a single leap; and nearly
knocking down the astounded clerk of Captain Schminky,
disappeared in the gathering darkness.
Lucia sat for a moment, looking from the door to the
present sent her by the lady; and then coloring, said, with
tears in her eyes:
“I am very grateful—and God is good to me—but, oh,
I am not happy!”
And again her head sank—her dark hair veiled her thin
cheeks, and sad eyes—and sitting thus silent, she seemed
to be thinking. In a moment her head rose, her face
assumed its habitual sad smile, and she murmured something
which was not audible.
Only the whistling of the wind was heard, careering
around and through the old house.
CHAPTER VIII. TREATS OF MR. SANSOUCY AND HIS SENTIMENTS.
Two or three days after the events, or rather the scenes,
just related, any one who had chanced to enter Mr. Sansoucy's
office, would have found that gentleman leaning
-- 469 --
[figure description] Page 469.[end figure description]
back in his chair, and contemplating with a most rueful
and unhappy visage, a diminutive note, the enamelled
envelope of which lay by him on his table.
The note which was in the most elegant and delicate
handwriting—evidently that of a lady, ran thus:
“Mr. Sansoucy will very much oblige me by releasing
me from my promise to accompany him to the opera to-night.
I feel as if I should not be able to enjoy it.
Aurelia.”
This was the missive which had fallen into Mr. Sansoucy's
sanctum like a bombshell; and bursting, scattered
in every direction the entire materials of his morning's
editorial.
The idea of writing anything after receiving this note,
did not even so much as occur to Mr. Sansoucy. He
seized a journal—eliminated a foreign letter—and informing
the patrons of the Weekly Mammoth, that the letter in
question was from Vienna, which was certainly apparent
already, recommended them to read it, and reflect profoundly
upon it. Having thus fulfilled his obligation as a
journalist, he handed the package to the printer's boy in
waiting—advised him to take extreme care not to lose
it—and again applied himself to the consideration of Miss
Aurelia's note.
“The fact is,” said Mr. Sansoucy—he always commenced
his soliloquies in this determined and resolute
form, “the fact is, I am beginning to think that there is
going to be some trouble between myself and Aurelia.
Affairs have come to this point now, that I shake all over
when I hear the sound of the door bell rung by my own
-- 470 --
[figure description] Page 470.[end figure description]
cowardly hand; and when she smiles in her fascinating
way, I experience a wish to slay some dragon or chimera
dire, in her defence. I am accustomed to analyze sensations,
to test emotions; and I have come to the conclusion
that I am in, perhaps, the most dangerous state of mind
possible for a bachelor.
“If I was not,” continued Mr. Sansoucy, smiling faintly,
after a moment's silence, “I don't think I would attach
so much importance to this note. The opera to-night is
Norma, and I certainly had promised myself no inconsiderable
pleasure in exchanging ideas with my Aurelia on
the subject—and here I am disappointed. She will be
greatly obliged, if I will relieve her from her promise—
will she? Is it possible that Heartsease is going to see
her, and she knows it? Heartsease! a perfect fop! really
one of the most shallow men I have ever seen!” said Mr.
Sansoucy, indignantly. “I liked Heartsease once, but it
is of course impossible to respect a man who—well, who
makes love to a man's sweetheart!”
And having thus detected the real reason for his sudden
depreciation of Mr. Heartsease, Sansoucy burst out
laughing. The incident caused him to reflect deeply upon
the point which he had reached, and these reflections were
expressed, ere long, in words.
“Aurelia is changed,” he said, with a sigh; “very
much changed. Indeed, there seems to have taken place
in her own character, exactly that modification—I may
say, that depreciation—which has taken place in mine.
When we parted—”
Mr. Sansoucy sighed again, and forgetting that it was
-- 471 --
[figure description] Page 471.[end figure description]
in the adjoining room, looked above the mantel-piece for
his picture.
“When we parted,” he continued, “Aurelia and myself
were as ingenuous and simple as ever were two frank
country children. Since that time I have travelled, studied,
read, and `acquired new ideas'—that is to say, I have forgotten
that beautiful country simplicity, and made myself
a careless, laughing, Epicurean philosopher. I enjoy
everything—laugh at everything—believe in very little,
and am slowly becoming a pure dilletanté, a mere creature
of the sunshine, with not one particle of seriousness.
Everything is a jest—every word is an epigram, or tries
to be; what a miserable deterioration!”
And quite sincere in his self-criticism, Mr. Sansoucy's
brow clouded for a moment, and he sighed.
“Well, well,” he said, “at least I have some one to
keep me in countenance! The other actor in those simple
country scenes of that beautiful and honest country youth,
has grown quite as careless and worldly as myself I fear.
What a pity!—what a very great pity!” Ah, if I could
have found in Aurelia something of her former self—if I
could have found the former tenderness, the old time simplicity!
How perfect a corrective all this would have
been to my own unfortunate tendency! But she has
nothing of it—she is as light as thistle down. Puff! I
blow her away. Pity, pity!”
And Mr. Sansoucy sighed from the bottom of his heart.
“The ridiculous thing about all this is,” he murmured,
“that I quarrel with Heartsease, and think it very strange
that Aurelia does not look upon him in his proper light—
-- 472 --
[figure description] Page 472.[end figure description]
as a man who believes in nothing, cares for nothing, has a
smile of careless good humor for everything, and admires,
of all the animal kingdom, the yellow butterfly of spring.
Why should she regard me, and frown on poor Heartsease?
It 's nothing but jealousy — miserable jealousy—which
makes me quarrel with her. She has a taste for the
Heartseases—they amuse her—their society suits her own
changed self—and I believe she is very much amused with
even my conversation for that very reason. Oh, if she
would only say to me, with her old voice and her old
looks, `Ernest, you have sadly changed—I retain my
freshness of heart and simplicity—you are a man of society,
and worse from the change.' If she would only say
that, I would go and offer her my heart, and love her
devotedly, like an honest gentleman, and dedicate my life
to her. What feeling towards her have I, in place of that
deep devotion—that tenderness, perfect and all-embracing,
which forms the earthly heaven, called true love? Why,
I have a sort of vague and undefined liking—a mere
preference for her society, because her jests amuse me, and
her beauty pleases me;—I go and pass the evening, and
allow her to flirt with me, and come home and light my
cigar, and shrug my shoulders, and say, `Yes, yes! a delightful
girl—very amusing—I must take care, or she 'll
catch me.' Catch me! a miserable phrase; and it shows
too correctly how I regard Aurelia. Aurelia to catch
Ernest—her old loving playmate! Oh, world of vanity,
and hollowness, and folly!”
And Mr. Sansoucy leaned back and sighed. He
remained for half an hour motionless and silent. Then
-- 473 --
[figure description] Page 473.[end figure description]
he went into his chamber, took down the picture in its
antique frame, and gazed at it long and in silence.
Never had the soft eyes beamed with more tender light;
never had the childish curls, rippling along the brow,
seemed to him to envelope a countenance more pure and
lovely. Another sigh, from the very bottom of his heart,
showed the depth of his feeling.
“Oh! she was frank and simple then—tender and
ingenuous,” he said, in a low voice; “my very being was
her own, inasmuch as my whole heart was. Let me
replace my treasure, and go and try to think she has not
changed entirely:—but I fear for my success. No, no!
I fear that Aurelia never will be the woman to make me
happy. She will wed some man of wealth and fashion—
smile kindly when we meet—and so it will be all arranged
in a way which the world will consider eminently proper:—
and I—but that is nothing. She cares as little for me
as I do for her—we have a little shallow good humor
remaining, and I suppose it will be understood that we
are to keep on this mask, hiding our uncongeniality—
rather our utter and identical change. Well, I'll play
the play—and be “undone,” maybe—and go away smiling
with the arrow in my heart. I'll even go to-night, and
laugh and tell her how much I regret her change of intention
in relation to the opera—and then, as I tell her so
plainly, with a careless laugh she'll think I don't care—
and so it will go on. Well, let it!”
With which vigorous permission to the ambiguous affair
to take its own course, Mr. Sansoucy put on his hat, and
wrapping his overcoat about him, went out.
-- 474 -- p506-483
[figure description] Page 474.[end figure description]
Perhaps no man ever more completely misunderstood
his own feelings.
CHAPTER IX. HOW HEARTSEASE COMPARES MISS AURELIA TO A PARROT.
When Mr. Sansoucy entered Mr. Ashton's parlor that
evening, the first person whom he saw was Mr. Heartsease
talking confidentially with Aurelia.
If there had been any doubt upon the subject of his
feelings for Aurelia before, the sensation experienced upon
seeing Mr. Heartsease might have enlightened him fully in
the matter.
He stood for a moment completely silent, with a face
filled with profoundest mortification; then greeting Aurelia
with much more courtesy and softness than usual, took
his seat, returning sadly the friendly words of Mr. and
Mrs. Ashton.
As for Heartsease, he held out his hand with that languid
grace which characterized him; and then gently
arranging one of his cravat bows, which had become
rumpled, and did not reach entirely to his shoulder, continued
his conversation with Miss Aurelia.
For a moment, it is true, Mr. Sansoucy had lost his
presence of mind, and had scarcely been able to suppress
the exhibition of his pain and displeasure on perceiving
the nature of the obstacle preventing Aurelia's visit to the
opera. But he had too often observed how much
-- 475 --
[figure description] Page 475.[end figure description]
awkward feeling and real unhappiness a man may crowd into
a single evening, by giving way to ill-humor: and so in
a few minutes, its customary expression of good-humored
carelessness had returned to his face; and with his back
turned to Miss Aurelia, he saluted smiling Misses Bel
and Lizzie, and began to converse pleasantly with the
elderly and cheerful Mrs. Ashton.
There are times when even the most good humored
young ladies are observed to pout—when they show
plainly that their stoutest armor is pierced—and when
they find it impossible to control the expression of their
feelings.
Aurelia though the look of surprise and mortification
upon the countenance of Mr. Sansoucy, very uncalled for,
and unjust, for she understood it perfectly:—and when he
turned away without taking any further notice of her, determined
to conceive for him the most ardent dislike. It
did not occur to her, for a single moment, that it would
be proper, under the circumstances, to enter into an immediate
flirtation with Mr. Heartsease, for the benefit of
Mr. Sansoucy—Aurelia had not lived sufficiently long
in the accomplished atmosphere of “society,” to be able
to enact, at a moment's warning, this harmless, and frequently,
very useful little dramatic part: all that she did,
was to color slightly, suppress two tears of mortification
and feeling which rose to her eyes, and say to herself that
it was very unjust and cruel in Ernest to meet her so.
Now, as injustice and cruelty were legitimate reasons for
dislike, Aurelia determined to dislike Mr. Sansoucy,
immediately.
-- 476 --
[figure description] Page 476.[end figure description]
The execution of her project was prevented for the
moment, however, by the conversation of Mr. Heartsease,
who was in unusual spirits, and made himself generally
fascinating.
As we have said, upon a former occasion, no words can
describe the serene effulgence of the Heartsease appearance,
when in full feather, and high spirits. There was
reason for Heartsease's spirits that evening, for just before
coming to see his friend, Miss Ashton, he had secured
a box of kid gloves, from Paris, of a tint long desired,
and looked for unsuccessfully—and had found them fit his
hand marvellously—not even so many as six in a dozen
being defective. This triumph had raised Heartsease's
spirits greatly, and at times his conversation became
almost lively.
The afflatus had, however, somewhat subsided, when
Mr. Sansoucy entered, and the elegant Heartsease was as
languid and smiling as ever.
When he asked Miss Ashton to favor him with a song,
it really did seem as if he should have associated with him
some more athletic gentleman to turn over the leaves of
the lady's music.
Aurelia, still pouting and absent, said that she really
could not sing.
“Not a simple aria, my dear Miss Ashton,” said
Heartsease, smoothing the fringed edge of his cravat, and
adjusting his collar with a gentle hand, “not some simple
morceau!”
“Indeed, Mr. Heartsease,” was Aurelia's reply, “I do
-- 477 --
[figure description] Page 477.[end figure description]
not think I could execute anything to please such a connoisesur
as yourself.”
“Connoisseur, Miss Ashton? No, no,” said Heartsease,
with a languid and agreeable smile, “I am only a
poor amateur. If you could only try my favorite Casta
Diva che inargenti—from Norma, you know—I should
really be exceedingly obliged. Going to the opera, you
know, and cramping one's self in those terrible stalls, is
really trying—it's a decided bore. And then the singers
open their mouths so abominably! I really feel sometimes
as if I were going to faint—I feel overcome—it
puts me in mind, my dear Miss Ashton, of those terrible
legends of my youth, in which the hero is swallowed by
cows, or dragous, or such monsters—and I fear for my
safety—I do, indeed.”
Aurelia smiles, with a bad grace, at Mr. Heartsease's
complaint, and says:
“But, indeed, sir, Casta Diva is so difficult.”
“Then, something else.”
“I am afraid—”
“Some simple aria, my dear Miss Ashton, from the
`Bohemian girl,' the `Fille du regiment,' or `Favorita'—
really I have set my heart upon hearing you. You
haven't the music? What a pity, and I suppose I am
doomed to disappointment.”
And Mr. Heartsease turns over some music, with a
languid grace.
“Ah,” he says, stopping at a piece, “here is the
duette—arranged for one voice. My old friend, `Mira
O Norma a'tuoi ginocchi.' But for the manifest
-- 478 --
[figure description] Page 478.[end figure description]
impropriety of the request, Miss Ashton, I would fain ask for
that most delicious air.”
Aurelia, whose patience is worn out by the smiling persistence
of the amiable Heartsease, and who really does
feel as if music would dissipate the unpleasant feeling in
her bosom, rises to comply with his request: and taking
her seat at the piano, commences the air from Norma.
It was then that the grace of Heartsease—his serene
amiability and elegant devotion—shone in all their native
and acquired splendor. Standing by the lady in a position
of profound attention—with his extended hand ready
to turn over the leaves—Heartsease seemed to yield himself
up a captive to the flood of harmony. His head
inclined gently upon his right shoulder—his enraptured
eyes sought the ceiling—and with languid-smiling lips
he kept time to the music, and appeared to soar away
from earth, and visit the land of magical kid gloves, and
unimagined “ties.”
His feelings rose and fell, so to speak, with the music.
When Norma was obdurate to her friends' prayer to
take again to her bosom her kneeling children, Heartsease
assumed an expression of affecting grief, but not as
one who expected nothing better coming. He seemed
to comfort himself, even in the depths of his affliction,
with the thought that things would not continue so bad
between the parties. Then, as the song proceeded, and
Norma gradually relented, an expression of triumph diffused
itself over the countenance of Heartsease, and his
enraptured chin kept time to the music more and more
enthusiastically. But when the final burst came, and the
-- 479 --
[figure description] Page 479.[end figure description]
friends declared their intention of living always together,
and only dying clasped in each other's embrace—then it
was that Heartsease was overwhelmed with the dulcet
harmony, carried away by the magical strain. His head
went from side to side, rapturously—his closed eyes
seemed to behold Normas and Adelgisas of surpassing
beauty—his whole being appeared to thrill, from the topmost
lock upon his head to the bottom of his shining
boots, with delicious, entrancing pleasure. With the final
crash he seemed carried away; he could not repress his
feelings:—beat, gently, the forefinger of his left kid with
the forefinger of his right, and murmured in an ecstacy,
“Bravo! charming! exquisite! divine!”
“I am glad it pleases you, sir,” said Aurelia, rising,
with a vague impression that she had done wrong in
singing a song from Norma, under the peculiar circumstances.
“I find my voice too weak to sing any more,”
she added, as Mr. Heartsease extended another piece of
music toward her, with a languidly-graceful air; “you
really must excuse me, Mr. Heartsease.”
And Aurelia turned round, and played with her sash,
and glanced furtively at Mr. Sansoucy.
If that gentleman had been annoyed by her singing,
he did not show his annoyance. His countenance was
full of its habitual frank good humor; and he was replying
to a remark made by little Miss Bel, who shone on
that evening in a magnificent head-dress, consisting of a
bow of red ribbon fixed to the extremity of her not lengthy
locks behind. Bel's face was as rosy as a ripe peach, and
-- 480 --
[figure description] Page 480.[end figure description]
she seemed to have found in Mr. Sansoucy a companion
perfectly to her taste.
As Aurelia's eyes returned from the survey, they meet
those of Mr. Heartsease fixed upon her with languid
admiration.
“What a divine language the Italian is,” said Heartsease,
gently passing his hand through his hair.
“Do you like it?” was Aurelia's absent reply.
“Oh, I adore it—our own is a perfect bore after it.
It's so liquid, my dear Miss Ashton, and seems to be
made for the language of lovers.”
“Oh, indeed!”
“Yes: and I think when I contemplate matrimony, I
will apply myself to the task of acquiring it—to pay my
addresses in.”
“Then you must find an Italian lady.”
“Or one who knows Italian.”
“Yes, that will do.”
“And as many ladies,” continued Heartsease, with a
look of admiration: “sing it very sweetly, I do not
despair of finding one who will speak it as pleasingly.”
Heartsease was evidently going to flirt, but Aurelia,
with a mischievous little toss of the head, said:
“I don't believe young ladies, generally, know a bit
about Italian—they sing what is written upon their music,
and that's all. I can say for myself, at least, Mr. Heartsease,
that I am perfectly innocent of any knowledge of
the language, and am a mere parrot—I repeat it.”
“The country of such parrots is yet undiscovered,”
-- --
[figure description] Illustration page.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]
-- 481 --
[figure description] Page 481.[end figure description]
said the gallant Heartsease: “or I would take up my
abode there.”
“Would you?”
“I would, upon my soul.”
And Heartsease ogled Miss Aurelia.
“I would dedicate my life to the pursuit of one of
them—I would catch the beautiful bird—and I know
very well what it would resemble.”
“Indeed—what?” said Aurelia, smiling at the languid
admiration of Mr. Heartsease; “one with a plumage of
green, and yellow and gold, and with violet eyes?”
“Oh, no,” sighed Heartsease: “one with pink plumage,
and deep azure eyes, and far lovelier than the rest!”
And Mr. Heartsease cast an accidental glance at Miss
Ashton's pink dress, and then plunged his soft sweet eyes
into the blue depths of the lady's.
“Really, Mr. Heartsease!” said Aurelia, laughing with
her frank mirth, “I do not know how to reply to your
views upon animated nature! How could I? I am only
a country girl, you know, and have studied nothing more
uncommon than hens and chickens. How could we have
glided thus from Norma to the barn-yard?”
And enjoying Mr. Heartsease's discomfiture, Aurelia
played again with her sash.
But Heartsease was an accomplished fencer, and replied
with his best and most graceful smile that the hens and
chickens had arisen originally from the discussion of the
question whether the Italian was not the language of love
and music.
-- 482 --
[figure description] Page 482.[end figure description]
“And as such it suits the divine invention of the opera,”
he said, smiling.
“Does it?”
“Oh, yes, Miss Ashton.”
“I am afraid it does not for me. I would much rather
have English words to the airs.”
And as she uttered these words, Aurelia moved toward
her former seat.
Bel had heard them; and now said, with a mery laugh:
“Oh, cousin! why don't you ask Mr. Sansoucy to write
you some words?”
“Ask me?” said Mr. Sansoucy, smiling.
“Yes, sir,” said Bel.
“I am afraid I should fail—especially in anything connected
with the opera of Norma,” said Mr. Sansoucy,
with an air of good humored reproach.
And gliding into the seat formerly occupied by Heartsease,
who was again about to resume it, Sansoucy bestowed
upon Miss Aurelia one of his most friendly smiles.
Heartsease stood for a moment, almost stunned by his
defeat—then he heaved a deep sigh, and smoothed his
waistcoat. Thereafter, during the rest of the evening, he
wandered about the room with a melancholy air, turning
over volumes of engravings, levelling his eye-glass at the
pictures on the wall, and exchanging sad remarks with
Mr. or Mrs. Ashton. To see a star of fashion, like
Heartsease, thus beneath an obscuring cloud, was a spectacle
piteous in the extreme, and full of warning to the
rest of the world.
-- 483 -- p506-494
CHAPTER X. AURELIA EXPLAINS.
[figure description] Page 483.[end figure description]
Sansoucy, as we have said, glided into the seat occupied
by Mr. Heartsease before the commencement of the
song; and without a trace of that mortification or ill
humor, which for a moment had brought an expression of
gloom and pain to his features, applied himself to the
task of entertaining Miss Aurelia with the most friendly
and good humored air imaginable.
For an instant a slight color came into Aurelia's fresh
cheek, and she hesitated.
Some young ladies—perhaps the great majority—would
have replied in the same tone of nonchalance, and left
matters in the misty atmosphere they had assumed—content
to show their power, and impress upon the enemy
the idea of their perfect freedom and irresponsibility to
any masculine tribunal whatever. To Aurelia, however,
after one instant's reflection, this proceeding did not commend
itself. With her habitual frankness and sincerity,
she determined to lead the conversation to the real point
at issue between herself and Mr. Sansoucy.
That gentleman had informed Miss Bel that he really
would be unable to write any words for airs from the opera
of Norma; and he now added:
“I couldn't write words for any opera airs, my dearest
little Miss Bel. I am not a universal genius—not quite—
and I think the May-day song exhausted me.”
“Oh, it 's so nice!” said little Bel. “How in the
-- 484 --
[figure description] Page 484.[end figure description]
world, Mr. Sansoucy, do you know anything about muslin
dresses hanging out in the sun?” added the young lady,
quoting admiringly from the song.
“I imagined their existence in that connection,” said
Sansoucy, smiling.
“`And all the girls are binding up their hair!”' continued
Miss Bel, laughing; “why, it 's just what they do!”
And the diminutive hand of the young lady was raised
to her own short locks, which no process of “binding up”
yet discovered, could possibly have coaxed into a twist
behind her head.
The observation occasioned a great deal of merriment;
and discovering where the joke lay, Miss Bel's rosy lips
assumed an undeniable pout: after which they parted to
permit a burst of laughter to issue forth.
“My dear child,” said Sansoucy, smiling, “an old adage
says, or ought to say, that to poets all things are possible.
In the present instance, I think my success in writing you
a song true to nature is demonstrated by your favorable
criticism and general approval.”
And pretending not to observe that Aurelia had tried
twice to address him, Mr. Sansoucy smoothed Miss Bel's
hair gently with his hand, after which he caused her lips
to present a most extraordinary spectacle, by pressing his
fingers upon the child's cheeks.
“I understand all those fine words very well,” was the
child's answer, “and I do so like your song, Mr. Sansoucy.
You'll write me another, won't you?”
“Oh, Bel, don't tease Mr. Sansoucy, “said Aurelia,
despairing of being able to attract his attention.
-- 485 --
[figure description] Page 485.[end figure description]
“Tease? I am not teased,” said the poet.
“Oh, I knew you were not!”
“No, Indeed.”
“Then you'll write some more for me and Lizzie?”
“Hum!”
“Now, say you will, Mr. Sansoucy, that will be
enough.”
“See, how these young ladies twist me like a ribband
around their fingers, Mrs. Ashton,” said Sansoucy, “how
can I refuse them? I always have been the victim of my
good humor.”
“Then you'll do it!” cried Bel.
“Yes, said Mr. Sansoucy, with an odd smile, “something
very funny and satirical—”
“But, cousin Aurelia will have to teach us, and that
will not please her.”
“Are you sure?”
This was the whole of Mr. Sansoucy's terrible revenge.
“Well,” he added, “I promise to make some verses for
both you and Lizzie: and then you will take my part if I
am ever abused in your presence. Have I not secured
two young friends at a very slight outlay, Miss Aurelia?”
said Sansoucy turning to the young lady who could not
restrain a slight color in her delicate cheeks, at her
repeated failure to arrest the speaker's attention; “I
make it a point never to offend a woman—I beg pardon,
a lady—and the more friends I make among them the
better.”
Aurelia was silent for an instant, struggling with the
temptation to reply in the same tone of easy carelessness.
-- 486 --
[figure description] Page 486.[end figure description]
But she overcame it: Mr. Heartsease certainly would have
been repaid in his own coin upon a similar occurrence—
but with the friend of her childhood, it was different.
She now said, as the rest went on conversing:
“I am afraid, Mr. Sansoucy, you have applied your
rule of action—not to offend ladies—to my case. Why
did you look so much pained and displeased when you
came in?”
Sansoucy was not prepared for such a direct attack,
and a sudden light in his eyes showed that he was taken
unawares.
“Displeased!” he said.
“Yes,” said Aurelia, in a frank kind voice, “you were,
however, even more pained, I thought.”
“Possible?”
“Yes: for goodness sake, don't treat me as if I were a
child, or a stranger, or an acquaintance of yesterday!
Cannot we speak frankly, sir, as old friends should?”
Sansoucy shook his head and sighed. These words
had at once dissipated all his affected carelessness, and
only the mortification remained.
“We were in a condition to speak in that way once,”
he said, “and even the other day, we might have done
so: but—”
Sansoucy again shook his head.
“You are very unjust and unreasonable!” said Aurelia,
looking at him with an expression of kindness and resolute
good feeling, which was not without a strong effect
upon him; “I really cannot understand how you have
so completely changed.”
-- 487 --
[figure description] Page 487.[end figure description]
“We have both changed,” said Mr. Sansoucy, sadly;
the conversation of the rest of the company rendering his
voice inaudible, except to Aurelia; “we have both undergone
a very great change. I will not make any reproaches—
and you should not reproach me.”
Sansoucy sighed as he spoke, like the most unhappy of
lovers: and, indeed, spite of his soliloquy, this was nearly
the character he sustained.
“Reproach me!” she said.
“Yes.”
“How could you?”
“It might not seem just to you—it might seem even
very silly.
“It will not” said Aurelia, simply.
“Well, let me be frank then, and say that I had expected
much pleasure from our visit to-night—”
“To the opera!”
“Yes.”
“And because—”
“Yes,” he said, sadly.
“Because you came in and found Mr. Heartsease—you
thought I expected his visit, and did not go? You thought
I concealed all this under my note of general excuses?
Oh! how much I must have fallen in your estimation!—
how unfortunate it is that you should think me capable
of such deception!”
And Aurelia, losing sight of any displeasure she had
felt at finding Mr. Sansoucy unable to deny the motives
imputed to him, yielded completely to the deep regret she
felt, and turned away her eyes which swam in moisture.
-- 488 --
[figure description] Page 488.[end figure description]
“How could you!” she murmured, “I thought our old
friendship entitled me to a little charity on such an occasion!
How could you think that I had so completely
forgotten my old frankness and sincerity—that I could
play thus with you to deceive you—that I am capable of
acting a part of so much insincerity and duplicity—with
you!”
And Aurelia restrained with difficulty the tears which
her impulsive feelings brought to her beautiful eyes—with
great difficulty. She looked lovelier than he had ever
seen her before—her delicate cheek redeened with blushes;
and a slight tremor of the lips showed how deep her
feeling was. There was something so kind and sincere,
so true and maidenly in her appearance, her look, her very
unconscious attitude, full of simplicity and modesty, that
Mr. Sansoucy found his own face glow with feeling, and
his heart throb.
“Pardon me,” he said, in a low voice, full of a tenderness
which he could not conceal, “I was weak and foolish—
no! I do not want any explanations or anything—nothing
could have made me act so unjustly, but the depth and
tenderness with which I—”
It is impossible to say how very plainly Mr. Sansoucy
would have spoken had not a pause in the conversation,
produced a silence, before which his words fainted—fearful
and cowardly.
He was silent, but he had uttered quite enough. Simple
as the words were, the tone of the speaker was so full of
love and tenderness, that Aurelia's cheek became crimson,
-- 489 --
[figure description] Page 489.[end figure description]
and she felt as if a thousand “little darts of flame” were
shot into her temples.
Mr. Sansoucy, with the presence of mind of a great
general, immediately called the public attention to a picture
over the fire-place, and asked Mr. Ashton the name
of the artist.
The information was promptly afforded Mr. Sansoucy,
by the old gentleman; and when the delighted recipient
had admired the painting again, he returned to Aurelia.
She had recovered her self-possession and smiled, when
his eyes met her own—a slight blush only accompanying
the timid smile and added to the delicate beauty of the
tender face.
“I am determined to explain everything,” she said, as
the rest of the company went on conversing; “my objection
to going to the opera to-night was based upon a
resolution I have made, not to `dissipate' so much. You
know we country girls,” she said, smiling, “are too apt to
be led away by the novelty of all this—especially the
opera, and become unreasonable.”
“The novelty is as much to the amiable town dames as
yourself,” he said, smiling softly, as he gazed at the lovely
face, “it is a new invention in Virginia.”
“Yes—but I am not going to so many balls either—”
“Oh, that—”
“Is an old invention: yes.”
“You are going to proscribe balls?” said Sansoucy, in
surprise.
“Oh, no: I am not going to take any stand against
them. I would make a very poor Joan of Arc—a very
-- 490 --
[figure description] Page 490.[end figure description]
weak leader—at the north I am afraid the strong-minded
women would not even let me be a little drummer girl in
the great army contending for Woman's Rights.”
Aurelia had resumed her delightful tone of delicate
mirth; and Mr. Sansoucy found himself deeply repenting
of the charges he had made against this trait, in his famous
soliloquy.
“I trust you will not enter the army at all,” he said,
looking with admiration at the frank and lovely face which
was illumined by the freshest and most joyous smile, “I
know one of the enemy who would lay down his arms!”
“Now you are flattering me!”
“No, indeed.”
“You shall not be called upon to do anything of the
sort then: I shall not make my appearance—and I am
not going even to attack the balls. I intend only to spend
less of my visits in amusements. I do not enjoy them as
much as a quiet evening with pleasant companions—and
those I always have.”
Sansoucy smiled, and nodded toward Heartsease.
“He is very entertaining,” said Aurelia, returning the
smile; “though I certainly had no right to expect him
this evening, as he visited me last night.”
This was a correct explanation of Miss Aurelia's, and
Mr. Sansoucy understood it perfectly.
“Oh that was unnecessary,” he said.
“What?”
“You have tell-tale eyes,” he replied, looking into her
face; “you betray yourself! Do not return to that
subject. It brought the color to your face—your old,
-- 491 --
[figure description] Page 491.[end figure description]
old habit!—and I felt the greatest remorse, that I had
caused it.”
“It was nothing,” said Aurelia, smiling, and threatening
to color again; “besides, you extricated me very adroitly.
That is a sweet painting.
And she pointed to the picture over the fire-place.
“Yes,” said Mr. Sansoucy; “will you go with me
to-morrow, and see the new gallery, just opened?”
“I would, willingly—but—I have some engagements:—
engagements that I'm sure you would think sufficiently
important not to be neglected,” she added, with a smile.
“Morning calls?”
“Oh, no—at least not such as you think—but that is
my secret!”
Sansoucy sighed, and looking with admiration at the
lovely face, said:
“Well, I must have the pleasure of seeing the paintings
with you. The day after to-morrow?”
“Oh, willingly.”
“And the Fair to-morrow evening.”
“Willingly!” repeated Aurelia; and soon they had
made all the arrangements.
Half an hour afterwards, both gentlemen rose and took
their leave together — Heartsease having completely
regained his good humor; and Sansoucy, as we need
scarcely say, having lost as completely his ill humor.
He was induing himself in his wrappings, which the
cold wind rendered exceedingly comfortable, when he
heard the merry voice of little Miss Bel, cry:
-- 492 -- p506-503
[figure description] Page 492.[end figure description]
“Be sure, now, to bring our songs to-morrow, or next
day, if you come, Mr. Sansoucy; will you!”
Mr. Sansoucy considered it unnecessary to say that he
certainly was coming to-morrow, or the next day; but he
very readily promised to comply with the request.
“I think you are very good!” said Bel, as a parting
compliment, from the threshold.
“I am rejoiced to have conciliated your good opinion,
madam,” was Mr. Sansoucy's polite reply.
And he went away with Heartsease, whom he now
regarded as a most agreeable and gentlemanly fellow,
and one whom he had basely slandered.
CHAPTER XI. HEARTSEASE IS OVERHEARD.
The night was exceedingly cold, and by the time the
two pedestrians reached the neighbourhood of Mr. Sansoucy's
lodgings, they were thoroughly chilled.
A proposition was therefore made, and adopted unanimously,
that they should proceed still further down the
street, and procure a supper, of that hot description which
restaurants serve up for the chilled palates of late visitors.
There are things which possess in themselves an innate
and peculiar attraction, not easily explained, but none
the less unmistakeable on that account—and among
these may be classed late suppers. The propensity to
partake of tempting condiments at late hours of the night,
-- 493 --
[figure description] Page 493.[end figure description]
is not peculiar only to actors, other professional public
characters, and editors—it is shared by all alike; and
the smoking banquet set before the two gentlemen was as
much to the taste of Heartsease, the man of fashion, as
Sansoucy, the journalist.
They sat in one of those little alcoves which, for some
reason, the architects of such houses seem to consider
necessary for visitors, on each side of the narrow table,
ornamented with castors which never had any mustard,
and whose pepper-cruet obdurately refused to furnish its
portion of the repast—and sitting thus, applied themselves
to the supper, and then to the hot fluids which the
cold night induced them to demand.
“What a fine girl she is,” said Heartsease, investigating
his punch with a languid smile. “Miss Ashton!”
“Indeed, she is,” replied Sansoucy.
“Beautiful, too.”
“Yes.”
“And as gay as a lark.
“When she chooses, she is a perfect sunbeam.”
“I say, my dear Sansoucy,” said Heartsease: “do you
know I think of marrying?”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it's an admirable resolution.”
“Is it, really?”
“Certainly.”
“Well, I think so, too. The fact is, a man gets tired
of bachelor life after a-while.”
“Nothing truer.”
-- 494 --
[figure description] Page 494.[end figure description]
“And longs to be married.”
“Why, Heartsease, you are growing domestic.”
“I believe I am,” sighed Heartsease, with a modest
air. “I have the most terrible washerwoman.”
“Washerwoman!”
“She exterminates my buttons in a way that is absolutely
frightful.”
“Oh, she does—eh?”
And Sansoucy contemplated the chagrin in Heartsease's
face with cruel mirth
“Besides, I never can get even a decent collar,” continued
that gentleman, raising his hand to the article in
question.”
“Why not?”
`Not enough of starch.”
And Heartsease sighed.
“You afflict me, my dear friend,” said Sansoucy, “but
how will marriage prevent this?”
“How?”
“Precisely.”
“Why, madam will take care of all that.”
“And you marry—!”
“For this? why, certainly. This, and having a wife,”
was Heartsease's languid reply.
“I really didn't think of this last reason,” said Sansoucy;
“there really is something in that.”
“I think so:—and the nicer your wife is, the better.”
“Assuredly.”
“I think Miss Ashton would suit me exactly.”
“Do you?”
-- 495 --
[figure description] Page 495.[end figure description]
“She is charming.”
“So she is—but the buttons?”
“Eh?”
“And the collars?”
“Oh, yes.”
“I doubt whether she would see to the starch.”
Heartsease looked melancholy.
“Don't you think she would?” he said. “Come,
advise me.”
“I advise you?”
“Why, certainly,”
“Why, I'm your rival!”
“You, Sansoucy!”
“I, my dear Heartsease, and I am going to defeat
you.”
“You don't mean to say—”
“That I'm in love with Miss Aurelia? Yes I do—
and I warn you to play your part well.”
“Hum!” said Heartsease, languidly.
“I shall press the siege.”
“Really, now?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then I withdraw. It's a bore to contest a woman—
everything is a bore, for that matter.”
“You are unhappy—you are a misanthrope!”
“Well, I am,” sighed Heartsease.
“I thought you said, coming down, that the gloves—'
“Had put me in good humor?”
“Yes.”
-- 496 --
[figure description] Page 496.[end figure description]
“Well, so I did, my dear Sansoucy But I find this
one actually bagging in the thumb.”
And Heartsease gazed with an expression of profound
despair upon his kid glove.
“Gloves are like women,” said Heartsease, philosophically;
“They don't answer a man's expectations.”
“Cynic.”
“Oh, no, I am not.”
“You are!”
“I am not, though this misfortune might make me
one.”
“The gloves?”
“Yes.”
“Poor fellow!”
“You laugh at me, unworthy friend! That's like you.
But gloves are like woman, otherwise,” continued the
philosopher Heartsease, who had been sipping his punch.
“How so?” asked his friend.
“They are either too warm or too cold.”
“What a calumny!”
“They either take no notice of your hand, they are so
loose, or they squeeze it—”
“Heartsease! Heartsease!”
“There,” said Heartsease, “I suppose I have said
something wrong. My dear friend, bring me another
punch—I am in a melancholy humor.”
“You?” said Sansoucy, as the waiter disappeared.
“Yes.”
“Well, go and read Tennyson's `Will Waterproof.”'
“Will Waterproof?”
-- 497 --
[figure description] Page 497.[end figure description]
“Yes—his monologue.”
“What is it?”
“It 's a number of reflections on human life, made by
Waterproof while he waits for a pint of port in a house
like this. He drums upon the table, reflects, and moralizes
in verse.”
“Good, but I won't, my dear Sansoucy—what a terrible
clatter there is in the next box, just that drumming
you mention.”
“Your nerves are weak.”
“So they are; I had some Cologne on my handkerchief
to-night that nearly knocked me down.”
“So strong?”
“Yes, terrible. I have sent a reproachful note to the
vendor, bidding him farewell forever.”
“What a pity.”
“A great pity,” said Heartsease, who had received his
second punch by this time, and was sipping it; but the
world 's a pitiful place.”
“Fie! you are a philosopher, Heartsease.”
“I am a wretch,” said Heartsease.
“No, no!”
“You are a wretch, too, my dear Sansoucy,” said
Heartsease, with an amiable look; “all the world are
wretches.”
“Untrue.”
“It's true.”
“How?”
“Look around you, at the professions.”
“Well.”
-- 498 --
[figure description] Page 498.[end figure description]
“The lawyers.”
“Very good.”
“Do you know an honest man among them?”
“Several.”
“You 're a lucky fellow. I don't. But look at the
doctors.”
“What of them?”
“They are rascals!”
“Oh, Heartsease!”
“They are, my dear friend—and observe that it is only
when I drink punch that I gain energy enough to take
the trouble to express these views.”
“Take care of the quantity.”
“Oh!”
“You are offended now at my advice.”
“Not at all; but have you ever seen me intoxicated?”
“No.”
“I think not.”
And Heartsease certainly was not, in the least: the
only effect produced upon him by the punch being an
expanded and philosophic humor.
“The world itself is intoxicating enough — that is
enough of a bore,” he added. “As to life, and all that,
my dear Sansoucy, what is it good for?”
“For various things.”
“I don't think so.”
“Why?”
“Because everything in it is laughable.”
“And nothing real?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
-- 499 --
[figure description] Page 499.[end figure description]
“Just now you said men were wretches. They are
real!”
“Yes—they are exceptions.”
“And all are wretches.”
“Precisely; especially the doctors. There is that old
fellow Fossyl—you know him?”
“Perfectly.”
“I was sick the other day.”
“You!”
“That is, I had a pain in the joint of my little finger.”
“Oh!”
“And I called him in.”
“Really!”
“Yes, why are you surprised?”
“I am not; I was listening to that growling in the
next box.”
“Really revolting;—shall I call the waiter and request—”
“Oh, no—it 's nothing.”
“Well, I was saying—”
“About Doctor Fossyl—”
“Yes. Well, he came, and examined my finger—and
what do you think he said?”
“I can't think.”
“He told me to apply a rose-leaf—”
“No!”
“Yes, a rose-leaf steeped in dew—”
“Heartsease!”
“And to tie it with the ribband from the neck of a
bottle of Cologne—no other would do.”
-- 500 --
[figure description] Page 500.[end figure description]
“You are joking!” said Sansoucy.
“I'm in dead earnest.”
“And did it cure it?”
“No! it turned out he was laughing at me.”
“Was he?”
“Yes—and it was only after thinking where I should
find a rose leaf at this season, that I began to scent the
joke.”
“A terrible thing is the doctor.”
“Was'nt it awful!”
“Shocking!”
“It implied, you know, my dear Sansoucy, that I had
nothing the matter with me.”
“Certainly did.”
“Whereas I had.”
“Yes.”
“That, therefore, my dear friend,” said Heartsease,
smiling, “is my ground for considering Doctor Fossyl a
wretch—life a farce—human nature a blunder, and the
universe generally an after piece.”
With which words Heartsease was about to apply himself
again to his punch, when he suddenly stopped.
Erect before the alcove, plate in hand, and indignant,
he saw Doctor Fossyl standing, and gazing at him with
terrible eyes.
“Why, is that you, my dear doctor?” said Heartsease,
smiling.
“Yes, sir!” cried Doctor Fossyl.
“Come in and take some punch—it's decidedly good.”
“No, sir!”
-- 501 --
[figure description] Page 501.[end figure description]
“I want to talk about my finger. The swelling—”
“Is, I hope, increased!”
“Oh! doctor, what an unforgiving man!”
“I play in a farce, sir!”
“So you do.”
“Life's not a farce, sir—though farce-actors play in it.”
“No!”
“Yes, sir; and you are a very accomplished one!”
“I, my dear doctor!”
“You, sir!”
“Come, now—you can't deny that it is, after all.”
“It is a calumny, sir—life is a place for a man to do
his duty, to acquit himself of his responsibility—to be a
man in, such as God made us to be! Do you hear,
sir!”
“I thought you were a sceptic, doctor.”
“Don't taunt me, sir, with my mistakes and faults—
and above all, sir, don't taunt the profession which you
cannot comprehend. No, sir! you are not mistaken in
supposing my prescription was a satire! Next time, sir,
if you call me away from my patients, I'll prescribe a
decoction of butterflies' wings!”
And brandishing his plate as though with the intention
of bringing it down, in his wrath, upon Mr. Heartsease's
head, Doctor Fossyl disappeared; and in a moment had
left the eating-house, into which he had gone to get a
mouthful after an entire day without food.
“Queer old coon,” said Heartsease. Isn't he?”
“I must say that his words astonish me greatly,”
muttered Sansoucy.
-- 502 --
[figure description] Page 502.[end figure description]
“Do you think he meant to compare me to a
butterfly?”
“How could he?”
“True: how could he? I am the most serious man
about town, and dress in the best taste.”
“Certainly, Heartsease.”
“Extraordinary old fellow.”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Would look well in a blue waistcoat and fancy tie.”
And with this good-humored criticism, Heartsease and
Sansoucy rose and returned homeward.
“I say,” said Heartsease, as they parted at the corner;
“did you ever think what the stars were made for?”
“Well—no.”
“I'll tell you, my dear friend.”
“Do.”
“They were put there—”
“Yes.”
“To keep me from stumbling at this dreadful crossing,
my dear fellow. Good night; take care of yourself.”
And kissing his hand, Heartsease, with his amiable
smile, disappeared in the darkness.
“There is only one thing stranger than the existence
of such a character as Heartsease,” murmured he, as he
turned the key in his door; “and that is the extraordinary
change in Doctor Fossyl!”
-- 503 -- p506-514
CHAPTER XII. AURELIA'S PRIZE AT THE FAIR.
[figure description] Page 503.[end figure description]
Sansoucy was prompt to his engagement on the next
evening; and ladies know very well how much such
promptitude indicates.
In fact, it had seemed to Mr. Sansoucy, that the figures
indicating the hour of eight, on that evening, had been
put forward on the face of time by some adverse fate—
and that the day would never end, and bring the world
round to the expected hour.
Precisely, as the hands of Mr. Ashton's clock pointed
to the time, Mr. Sansoucy made his appearance—greeted
Mr. and Mrs. Ashton; and saw that Aurelia was quite
ready. A malicious critic would have said that she anticipated
quite as much pleasure from the visit, as did her
admirer—but the gallantry of the present historian will
not permit him even so much as to hint such a thing;
and he confines himself, therefore, to the simple statement,
that Miss Aurelia's appearance indicated that she was not
only willing, but ready.
Mr. Sansoucy was doomed, however, to first undergo
the importunities of Misses Bel and Liz, for their verses,
promised them. To these demands he replied, that the
words of their request had been, “if you come to-morrow
or the next day”—and inasmuch as the next day had not
yet arrived, he was not failing in his promise.
“Well, sir, please bring them to-morrow,” said Miss
-- 504 --
[figure description] Page 504.[end figure description]
Bel, “I want so much to hear cousin Aurelia set them to
music, and sing them.”
“Cousin Aurelia?”
“Yes, sir—she has been singing the May verses all the
afternoon, and I have learned them so nicely.”
For some reason, Miss Aurelia turns away, and says
she must go up stairs for something.
“Cousin Aurelia is so good to us,” says Lizzie, with
an affectionate look.
“Is she?”
“Yes, indeed, I love her dearly.”
“And so do I,” said Bel, “don't you, Mr. Sansoucy?
Of course—I mean—”
And Miss Bel, fearing that she has committed an impropriety,
assumes a delightful little air of demure
gravity—and thereafter bursts out laughing.
Liz looks surprised and says:
“Why, everybody loves cousin Aurelia—I think she is
the sweetest and dearest thing in the world! Indeed, indeed,
Mr. Sansoucy, when you know her well, you'll like
her as much as we do.”
“No doubt of it, my little friend.”
“I'm sure you will,” says the child, with that manner
full of softness and smiles, of purity and goodness, which
none but the authoress of one of the most delightful books
of any age, the “Wide, Wide World,” can adequately reproduce.
As for the present historian, he follows that
beautiful and pure pen at a respectful distance, and gladly
acknowledges the delightful entertainment, as well as the
instruction he has derived from those beautiful pictures
-- 505 --
[figure description] Page 505.[end figure description]
of goodness and self-sacrifice. But this is quite a digression
from the subject of Mr. Sansoucy's visit to the fair;
and we are recalled to our duty of chronicler, by the
reëntrance of Aurelia, who smiles, and signifies that she
is ready.
The wind had lulled, and although it was very cold,
they had a fine starlight night to guide them. They soon
reached the Fair, and entered the buzzing and brilliant
throng.
The Fair had been originated by some charitable
ladies for the poor; and all classes of the community had
been called upon to contribute something to its tables.
The call had not been in vain—and Miss Aurelia gazed
with the curiosity and interest of a true woman, upon the
beautiful things heaped up upon the tables. Her own
needle had contributed, in no slight degree, to several of
the departments; and she felt a pardonable pride upon
finding that these were not excelled in taste or beauty, by
anything of the same description which had been offered.
The young lady was early in the evening armed with a
huge bouquet, for which Mr. Sansoucy was compelled by
his hard little merchant, the vendor, to pay a moderate
fortune:—and so they went on through the crowd, smiling
and exchanging salutations with a hundred friends.
The apartment blazed with lights, and the fair merchants
had prepared their head-dresses, and decorations
generally with the evident conviction that they would be
subjected to a large amount of comment—and the consequence
of this preparation was an array of enemies fatal
-- 506 --
[figure description] Page 506.[end figure description]
to all but philosophers; possibly not even without danger
to that class.
The immense crowd hummed and buzzed and laughed
and undulated to and fro:—and at times this laughter
would rise almost to a shout, and the uproar would be
stunning.
In their circuit Aurelia saw suddenly opposite to her,
Mr. Heartsease—and as this gentleman had been pining
for a recognition for some moments, their salutation was
simultaneous.
“How divinely you look this evening, my dear Miss
Ashton,” said the amiable Heartsease, gently passing his
hand through his hyacinthine locks; “I thought there
was something wanting in the rooms—but since you came,
the spectacle is perfect.”
And the gallant Heartsease smiled, kissing his hand to
a lady friend, who nodded to him as she passed.
“Oh, me! what terrible flattery!” said Aurelia, laughing,
“or rather irony—you are too bad, Mr. Heartsease.”
“I never, never flatter,” sighed Heartsease.
“Then you admire me very much,” said Aurelia, logically,
and smiling as she spoke, “how pretty the rooms
are—the tables.”
“I was admiring the animated nature, my dear Miss
Ashton.”
“Were you?”
“Yes, indeed: I have lost my heart seven distinct times
since my entrance. Ah! I am dreadfully susceptible.”
“Indeed.”
-- 507 --
[figure description] Page 507.[end figure description]
“Too true—and I foresee that I shall lose it for the
eighth time in a moment—there, it's gone!”
And Heartsease ogled Miss Aurelia with affecting
earnestness.
“Oh, Mr. Heartsease, how you jest!”
“Never.”
“You are making fun of a country girl.”
“I admire them vastly more than town ladies.”
“Where there is so much to attract? I think that
you and Mr. Sansoucy laugh at me.”
And Aurelia with a delightful affectation of chagrin
looked at Sansoucy.
That gentleman's look was quite enough, if Miss Aurelia
truly feared such a thing; and she turned away in silence.
“They are about to have a lottery yonder,” sighed
Heartsease, smiling; “the project was explained to me
just now.
“What is it, sir?”
“You buy a ticket, and draw a blank or a prize,”
replied Hearstease, with the air of a man who utters an
intricate and difficult sentence, and fears it will not be
understood.
“Ah!” said Aurelia.
“Possible!” said Sansoucy.
“Yes, my dear friend, and I think I'll go take a chance.
It has been formerly observed that marriage is a lottery—
which prevents me from making the remark again. As I
can't try matrimony, I'll try the lottery.”
“Why, can't you?” said Sansoucy.
“Impossible, my dear fellow—I have reflected about
-- 508 --
[figure description] Page 508.[end figure description]
the starch and buttons, and have determined to endure
all.”
“Have you?”
“Yes, yes!”
“Well, you are philosophical: who are you smiling at?”
But Heartsease's enraptured eyes were fixed upon the
distance.
“Who is it, my dear Heartsease?”
But Heartsease only kissed his hand to the distance.
“Come—I know that is a lady—and for an incorrigible
bachelor—”
“Pardon me, my dear friend,” said Heartsease, gliding
away, “and you, my dear Miss Ashton, I see as a friend
I wish to salute—my highly esteemed friend, Miss Gosyp.”
And Heartsease disappeared in the crowd, languid and
smiling to the last.
“Suppose we follow Mr. Heartsease's advice,” said Sansoucy,
smiling; “here is the lottery.”
Aurelia assented, and Mr. Sansoucy purchasing some
tickets, they waited for the wheel of fortune to revolve.
The utmost incongruity was observable in the prizes which
fell to various elderly gentlemen, and a lady of great dignity
started back before the vision of a snuff-box.
Mr. Sansoucy drew a blank—Aurelia, a prize.
It was the lace cap of a child, and with a smile, she
declared herself perfectly satisfied. They again entered
the undulating noisy crowd, and so in the midst of one of
the merriest uproars ever seen or heard, passed the hours
of the evening until nearly midnight.
Mr. Sansoucy and Aurelia went away before the crowd
-- 509 --
[figure description] Page 509.[end figure description]
separated, and going homeward under the beautiful stars
of the cold bright night, talked on a thousand subjects—
which conversation the present historian sees no reason to
repeat.
The stars must surely be intended for some other purpose
than to show the crossings, even though their light
be needed by as elegant a gentleman as Heartsease.
Surely, if even they were as the ancients thought, only
bright lamps hung in the heavens for the benefit of earth,
their mission is far nobler than to light a crossing. In
their infinite depths, a solemn beauty reigns—a joy, and
thoughtful loveliness—and though the philosopher of a
unique school, considered it a “sad sight;” a thousand
and ten thousand human hearts, know how much quiet joy
lies in those golden fires, fretting the noble vault, and
shining upon earth with hope and encouragement. Under
the light of stars such tender words have been spoken!—
such pure feelings have risen up like silent fountains,
touched by a hand they must obey! Such loving words
have been whispered with those serene sentinels for listeners—
such hope has come to fainting human souls from
gazing on them in their azure fields, and thinking how
they roll forever there, and like the moon, “take up the
wondrous tale,” through all the ages, and show who has
made and placed them there!
So under the stars Sansoucy and Aurelia came back
home—and the little hand lay in his own at parting—and
the innocent cheek was covered with its tell-tale blush.
She went from him like the light—and when he turned
away the night seemed darker.
-- 510 -- p506-521
[figure description] Page 510.[end figure description]
He saw her plainly all the way as he returned—with perfect
plainness—her bright eyes laughing—and her slipper
poised upon the portico, as she stood on the threshold—
and in her hand the pretty lace cap which she had drawn
at the fair.
“How beautiful and lovely she is,” he said; “so pure
and good.”
And Mr. Sansoucy went on with a smile.
CHAPTER XIII. DOCTOR FOSSYL AND SANSOUCY.
Eleven o'clock had just struck on the following morning,
and Mr. Sansoucy was wiping his pen, with his completed
morning task before him, when he perceived that
an equipage stopped before the entry which led to his
office; and in a few moments a man's step was heard
ascending the stairs.
With that patience which becomes a necessity with official
persons and editors, Mr. Sansoucy threw himself back
in his chair and fixed his eyes calmly upon the door.
It opened and gave entrance to Doctor Fossyl.
Doctor Fossyl was clad, as usual, from head to foot, in
black; and his thin hair stood erect, as it always did,
upon his yellow and emaciated forehead. His legs were
cased in their old splatterdashes, and were marvels of
slenderness—in his hand he carried the ebony snuff-box
from which he had regaled himself with a pinch as he
ascended.
-- 511 --
[figure description] Page 511.[end figure description]
So far, every thing in Doctor Fossyl's appearance was
just as usual; but his countenance and manner had undergone
a marked change. The heavy grey brows no longer
hooked themselves, so to speak, together over the caverns
in which his restless and bitter eyes rolled gloomily or
satirically—his thin lips were no longer drawn across his
yellow teeth, with a sneer at himself and everything:—
his whole countenance was subdued and earnest in its
expression; and an eager, craving look in the deep eyes
indicated emotions of a description very unusual with the
cynical physician.
He entered, and said to Mr. Sansoucy, with cold
indifference:
“Good morning, sir—I called to tell you that your
friend Lacklitter no longer needs my services.”
“Ah, doctor! you bring me very welcome news,” said
Sansoucy, “sit down—those stairs are terribly fatiguing”—
“Yes, they are,” said the doctor, wiping an imperceptible
moisture from his thin brow, and seating himself.
“And the consequence of the recovery of Joe Lacklitter
is—”
“My money—yes.”
“I had the word upon my tongue, doctor,” said Sansoucy,
who seemed to know his visitor well, and so came
at once to the point. “I would have allowed another
man to talk about the weather, or politics, or anything
first; and so come in due time to mention, quite incidentally,
his “little bill”—but your time—”
“Is valuable: you are right.”
“Certainly, Doctor.”
-- 512 --
[figure description] Page 512.[end figure description]
“And the money is earned fairly.”
“Yes, again.”
“Why not ask for it directly then? It is the affectation
of all professions, sir, to make believe that they feel
a repugnance to asking for their dues. I don't.”
“I know it, Doctor.”
“I have just received thirteen hundred dollars, which I
was entitled to, and asked for—and to have seen the face
of the man I had saved, only after the most tremendous
contest with death, you would have imagined that I had
asked him to make me a present of the money.”
“That is a tolerably respectable sum of money, Doctor,
to draw for at one minute's sight,” said Sansoucy, good
humoredly.
“It was earned.”
“No doubt.”
“Hardly and laboriously earned. Look at me.”
“You look badly.”
“I am worn out. I have a constitution of iron, in
spite of my emaciation; but I am nearly dead for want
of sleep, and from anxiety.”
“This man?”
“Yes.”
“Do you feel wearing anxiety?”
“I? Yes! Perhaps it is my curse, but I feel throb
by throb, agony by agony, the suffering of my patients,
and until they are snatched from the grasp of death, death
clutches at me.”
Sansoucy gazed with curiosity upon the strange man
before him, who spoke so coldly of his suffering.
-- 513 --
[figure description] Page 513.[end figure description]
“And when I am worn out with this grim struggle,”
said the Doctor, “I am denied my money.”
“Not denied, Doctor!”
“Yes—not seldom denied. But I get it?” I keep no
books—let us arrange our account, and end it.”
“Willingly.”
“Here is the account for attendance on Lacklitter—
I have purposely made it as moderate as possible—not to
do you a favor, but for my own reasons.”
Sansoucy looked at it.
“Why, Doctor, you rob yourself!” he said, “it is
nothing.”
“Gold, bank notes, or a check.”
And Doctor Fossyl pretended to have misunderstood.
“Really, Doctor—it does not look fair to pay you this
trifle—”
“No discount.”
“What are you talking about, Doctor?”
“My money.”
“I say it is robbing you.”
“Pay me.”
And this was all Sansoucy could extract. He smiled,
determined to humor the physician, and sitting down,
wrote a check for the amount.
Doctor Fossyl then carefully receipted the account, and
presented it solemnly to Mr. Sansoucy, as though calling
upon him to witness that he had delivered it. Then he
put the check in his waistcoat pocket, and remained silent
for some time.
-- 514 --
[figure description] Page 514.[end figure description]
“A pretty character that Heartsease is!” he said, at
length, “a perfect grasshopper!”
“Last night you suggested his resemblance to a butterfly,
my dear Doctor.”
“So I did, and it is even more appropriate.”
“Ah, let us be lenient!”
“We are not called upon to be.”
“I think we are.”
“How? but here we come to a discussion about the
Bible, which we have already gone through.”
Sansoucy nodded, and was silent. Doctor Fossyl looked
keenly at him.
“You went away thinking about my reply to your
friend, Heartsease, last night,” he said, “did you not?”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“And what did you think of it?”
“Think?”
“What feeling did it cause you, sir?”
“One of very great pleasure.”
“Why?”
“Because I believe you will be a happier man for your
belief, Doctor.”
“What does my happiness or unhappiness concern
you?”
“Nothing in my purse—to answer your question in the
spirit you ask it:—much in myself, personally, for I have
much regard for you.”
“You!”
“Yes.”
“For me.”
-- 515 --
[figure description] Page 515.[end figure description]
“Undoubtedly, Doctor.”
“Why?”
“First, because, when I had that terrible attack last
summer, your kindness and attention were beyond all
praise or acknowledgment—”
“Humph!”
“Secondly, because I know that your cold and bitter
manner conceals a heart full of kindness.”
“Bah! don't try to flatter me.”
“What should I gain?”
“I 'm rich.”
“I have enough, my dear philosopher; and I don't
want any of your money.”
“And so you are glad that I recognize my responsibility,
in words at least, to a supreme being?”
“Yes.”
“Humph!”
And Doctor Fossyl was silent. Then looking in the
same keen way at Sansoucy, he said:
“Do you know I used to despise you?”
“No, Doctor.”
“I did, however.”
“I am sorry; why?”
“Because I thought you just such a butterfly as Heartsease.”
Sansoucy shook his head.
“I 'm afraid I 'm a terrible trifler yet, Doctor.”
“You are nothing of the sort.”
“What am I then?”
“I don't pretend to say—I only say I despise you
-- 516 --
[figure description] Page 516.[end figure description]
no longer. Formerly I despised not only you, but all
men.”
“What a bitter time of it you must have had.”
“How bitter?”
“With so much poison in your heart.”
“Poison, sir?”
“Yes, Doctor—I think that rage, and bitterness, and
contempt, are the most acrid of all poisons to the heart.”
“Humph!”
Sansoucy observed that this monosyllable represented,
in their conversation, a species of acquiescence on the
Doctor's part, and said:
“Come, am I not right?”
“I do not dispute it.”
“There, Doctor, I have gained a victory.”
“A very poor one—I am by no means satisfied, sir, that
I was not right in despising mankind.”
“Ah, Doctor, permit me to say that you were a thousand
times wrong.”
“Prove it!”
“I am embarrassed by the mass of proofs—the fertility
of the fields of illustration—I cannot. But this I will
say, that the annals of the world are crowded with the
most splendid and conspicuous figures, which represent,
each one of them, some noble virtue, some lofty career—
something to make us look upon the great, true man, as
the worthy creation of an Almighty and all-true Being,
supreme, and good, and adorable. I need not speak of
these—they stretch all along the far fields of the past, and
rise against the horizon of history like mountains.”
-- 517 -- p506-528
[figure description] Page 517.[end figure description]
“And the valleys?”
“I understand you—but they prove that the world is
not flat.”
Doctor Fossyl looked at his companion's careless and
smiling face, and said:
“Your philosophy is very fine—I am only sorry I can't
embrace it.”
“Try.”
Doctor Fossyl shook his head, and was silent.”
CHAPTER XIV. AN OUTLINE OF MR. SANSOUCY, DRAWN BY HIMSELF.
Sansoucy was silent also, but with him it seemed the
silence of conviction.
“Only exert your will to believe my philosophy, Doctor,”
he said at length, “and you will find not the least
difficulty in it.”
“It has insuperable difficulties.”
“Come, what are they?”
“The facts of the case.”
“How?”
The Doctor, with his old growl, said cynically:
“Look at all classes of men—look at polities! how a
herd of petty fricksters pull the wires, and lead the blind
flock from field to field—”
“Look at the great leader.”
“Who is such?”
-- 518 --
[figure description] Page 518.[end figure description]
“The man who died but the other day was—the man
for whom the nation mourns to-day, with banners at half
mast, and the boom of cannon, and that general gloom
which marks the passage of a nobleman of nature to his
home!”
“You mean—”
“The man of Ashland; yes,” said Sansoucy, whose
face glowed, as it always did when he thought of this
leader. “Yes! the man of Ashland! Think of him!
A man who stood, the impersonation of a grand and glorious
era, a new people, a supreme republic!—a man
shaped and moulded `in the very prodigality of nature'—
a man born by us yonder, in the Slashes—in Hanover,
immortalized by her two Henrys—going thence to a new
country, without friends or money—rising almost at a
bound to his own splendid atmosphere—and holding his
position there by the pure gift of nature! See how he
rose from height to height—how, everywhere, the very
opponents who fought against him conscientiously, followed
him with their eyes as he went up like an eagle—
waiting for his words and wondering. See him stand
finally a majestic form upon the steeps of glory, preserving,
twice as far as one man could, the unity and life of the
republic: see him go down then, passing by what his
glory did not need, to his simple farm house—sinking like
the sun, grander and more glorious even in its setting!
Embrace at a glance, from horizon to horizon, this vast
and splendid career!—and tell me if a charlatan could
have thus grappled to his own the heart of a great
nation, and have stood as he did, noble and beautiful, and,
-- 519 --
[figure description] Page 519.[end figure description]
if not immaculate, yet like the sun, whose spots are swallowed
in its splendor! Such a man makes a period, and
dazzles me from the summit of his glory! For myself,
Doctor, I do not hesitate—I may have too little brain—
too much enthusiasm! But when I consider this man and
his career, the blood flows through my veins more rapidly—
my heart is melted in my breast—I bow before his memory,
and say, `The world seems drearier since you went
away—the sun is not so bright—the mould which shaped
your soul is broken. Hail, and farewell!—hail, and farewell,
Harry Clay!”'
Sansoucy wiped his moist brow and was silent: and for
a moment the Doctor was silent too.
“It would be folly to deny the great intellect and
splendid genius of this man—and I speak not ill of one
whom the grave covers,” said Doctor Fossyl at length; “I
spoke only of those ragged and repulsive lazzaroni who
`prowl around the tombs of our dead Cæsars,' as a journalist
like yourself has said. No, sir, I do not call in
question the greatness of our noble Virginian; neither do
I presume to do, what you seem to fear, deride your
enthusiasm: but my heart beats not so warmly—I am
old—”
Oh, Doctor, that is a piece of self-deception! You
have a noble heart.”
“Bah! I have a bitter and uncompromising cynicism.”
“No, no!”
“I doubt everything.”
“And every man?”
“Nearly.”
-- 520 --
[figure description] Page 520.[end figure description]
“Not me, I hope?” said Sansoucy.
“I don't know—you are one of the few men who seem
to me disinterested.”
“What a triumph!”
“I am glad you feel it?”
“I do.”
“Wait till I speak a little more plainly.”
“Speak.”
The Doctor looked at his companion for a moment, and
said, coldly:
“What did you expect when you befriended Lacklitter?”
“Nothing.”
“Are you sure?”
“Certainly, I expected neither money nor service—”
“But reputation for charity and amiability?”
Sansoucy laughed.
“Why, no, Doctor,” he said, it was simply one of my
eccentricities. I met Ellie—her face pleased me, for its
goodness and purity—she came and called on me for
assistance for her uncle. I gave what I could—that's all.”
“And you expected nothing.”
“Nothing else but her smile and Joe's.”
“You were satisfied with that?”
“Why should I not be? Ah, my dear Doctor, pardon
me if I say you make the common blunder of strong intellects
and acute minds. You measure my feelings by your
own, my pleasures by your own—or else by those of some
arbitrary character erected in your own imagination as a
test—a philosopher's stone; to try if my own is gold or
-- 521 --
[figure description] Page 521.[end figure description]
brass. Nothing could be more unworthy of a philosopher,
Doctor. Your chief delight lies in tracing step by step,
indication after indication, the vestiges of disease in the
subject beneath your scalpel—you pounce upon the imperceptible
indications with triumph; you are king over disease,
even among the trophies of his power. Or else, and
this is more amiable, you triumph in your victory over
your rout of this power—you wrestle with death and
throw him by pure strength; I honor, and wonder at you,
and envy you. But I cannot imitate you. With other
men, too, it is this or that cause of pleasure—you try me
by yourself or by them, and you find me wanting, because
my pleasure lies neither in a successful diagnosis, or political
success, or literary renown; or that lowest of passions
the acquisition of wealth. Well, I certainly depend for
my happiness upon none of these things. I am odd,
eccentric, ridiculous—anything you choose—but I am
sincere. I am quite sincere, my dear Doctor: and I can't
help it. Why quarrel with the character which God has
given me? I like simple things—what the world calls
trifles. I would rather have the affection of a child, than
the fear of a nation. I would rather hear a girl singing
an old ballad, at the window of one of our Virginia country
houses, as she sews, than listen to the finest cantatrice that
ever trilled her grace notes before silent thousands in the
theatre. I'd rather have my old friend at my side, than
talk with a duke—there it is, Doctor: very ridiculous, but
very sincere. I can't help it, and I'm not ashamed of it.”
“So you were wholly disinterested in this affair of
Lacklitter?”
-- 522 -- p506-533
[figure description] Page 522.[end figure description]
“I think so.”
“You expected nothing?”
“I think not: nothing but the pleasure which any man
of good feeling derives from doing what he thinks his
duty—that's all.”
“I believe you, sir,” said Doctor Fossyl, with the air of
a man who pays the noblest possible tribute to another.
“I honor you, and I thank you for much more than
teaching me that men are not all base!”
With which words, Doctor Fossyl rose, extended his
livid hand to Mr. Sansoucy, and taking a cigar from the
mantel-piece, lit it, and went away without another word.
The piece of paper used to light the cigar had fallen
on the floor, and as it burned still, Mr. Sansoucy placed
his foot upon it to extinguish it.
He perceived for the first time that it was his check,
given in payment of the Doctor's account for attending
upon Joe Lacklitter.
CHAPTER XV. EXPLAINS WHO PASSED MR. SANSOUCY ON THE STAIRS.
Sansoucy threw the remainder of the check into the
fire, and said:
“One of this man's eternal eccentricities—and he will
only be offended if I persist. Well, he has a right to be
charitable; and I know this is not the first or the thousandth
time, he has acted the part of the good Samaritan.
-- 523 --
[figure description] Page 523.[end figure description]
How glad I am, for his sake, that he has rejected his
cold and barren scepticism—well, well, well: this is
a strange world: though not a `world of vanity, and
hollowness, and folly,' as I observed yesterday, I recollect!”
And smiling faintly, Sansoucy leaned back in his chair,
and pondered.
He was beginning to understand how completely he
had mistaken his own feelings in that famous soliloquy
which we have chronicled for the amusement of the reader.
In truth, Mr. Sansoucy was no exception to the rest of
the world: and his own views upon the nature of his
feelings were abundantly destitute of accuracy. He
thought and said to himself, that Aurelia had completely
changed—that she had grown frivolous—that she would
not make him happy as his wife—that he did not love her
in the least, and had for her, at best, only that dubious
liking which a man is apt to conceive toward a merry and
beautiful young lady, with whom he has many memories
and associations in common; but whose character is too
light to satisfy him, or make any deep impression upon
him. On the evening of the day which heard the utterance
of these views, Mr. Sansoucy went to see the young
lady who was so indifferent to him: and he found his
heart throb when she spoke to him in her kind, familiar
voice—his cheek flush with her own—his bosom fill with
the deepest tenderness as he looked into the soft blue
eyes, laden with unshed tears, and shining on him from
his youth. He had as wholly mistaken his own character,
too, in imagining that his heart had lost its freshness, his
-- 524 --
[figure description] Page 524.[end figure description]
character its simplicity. His manner had changed wholly—
his heart not at all, or scarcely at all. Through a
thousand temptations and adverse influences this man's
character had retained its sincerity and truth—his temper
its sweetness;—his enthusiasm was still as easily excited,
and as warm as in his boyhood. Perhaps a few more
years of life in the whirl of an existence, which choked
out everything fresh and beautiful, might have worked
this change. But the child, Ellie, had come, and her
influence upon him was great. She had revived all those
recollections of his youth, which were fading—she had
taught him the beauty and glory of kindness—the benefits
he had bestowed upon her were a thousand times less than
those he had reaped from her—child as she was—perhaps
because she was a child.
When, therefore, he had sought Aurelia, it was the heart
of his boyhood which he brought her; the freshness of
the past which he offered her—the same affection he had
formerly experienced, which he felt.
Aurelia, on her side, brought to test the Ernest of the
present, just those feelings which had formerly influenced
her—the same simplicity—the same playful, yet modest
nature, the same innocence and goodness.
But we linger too long in prosaic explanations, which
the reader of this history probably does not need. Let
us come back to Mr. Sansoucy, who, after declaring that
the world is not a world of vanity, and hollowness, and
folly, ponders for a time, and then rises, and makes some
alterations in his toilette, and goes out.
As he leaves his chamber, he glances, with a smile, at
-- 525 --
[figure description] Page 525.[end figure description]
the wall above the mantel-piece, where the picture no
longer hangs, and mutters, “we shall see!”
It was a cold and brilliant morning—the sun made the
snow sparkle like a sea of ice—and the streets were alive
with sleighs, which tinkled merrily, and pedestrians, who
hailed each other as they passed with laughter and shiverings,
and hastened on.
Mr. Sansoucy soon reached Mr. Ashton's.
The two young ladies of tender age, whose brilliant red
cheeks have colored, in a degree, our narrative, ran forward
to receive him: and for some moments, Mr. Sansoucy
was very nearly pulled to pieces by the eager damsels.
“Where are our songs?” cried Bel.
“Now, Mr. Sansoucy!” echoed Lizzie.
“You know you promised!”
“And you never fail!”
“What a compliment!” cried Mr. Sansoucy, with great
delight. “I am decidedly popular here.”
“Indeed you are!”
“Are you sure?”
“I like you,” said Miss Bel rolling her large eyes at the
visitor, in a way which seemed to afford him inordinate
pleasure.
“But the grounds of this liking, madam?” he said, with
a modest air, “unaccustomed as I am to public speaking,
and unused as I am to receiving from ladies assurances of
a character similar to—”
“There, now! you are putting us off!” cried Miss Bel,
“you shan't!”
And the young lady plunged her hand into Mr.
-- 526 --
[figure description] Page 526.[end figure description]
Sansoucy's coat pocket. She drew it out full of French
kisses, variegated cornucopias of candy, and good things
generally, procured by Mr. Sansoucy for his young friends.
“Oh, me! how nice!” cried Bel.
“Are they?”
“Yes—but I must put them back!”
And the hand would have restored its contents to the
pocket.
“No,” said Mr. Sansoucy, “at the risk of incurring
your eternal enmity for implying that your ladyship is still
a child, I must say that these things were intended for
you and Lizzie.”
And Mr. Sansoucy emptied his pockets of a perfect
wagon load of good things.
In the midst of the delighted clatter which this proceeding
caused, Aurelia entered, smiling and rosy, and
held out her little hand to her visitor.
“Still as fond of children as ever!” she said, smiling.
“Yes, indeed—you know it is an old failing.”
“Old?”
“We were great friends when a certain grown up lady
was a child.”
And Mr. Sansoucy gazed with admiration upon the
fresh face which plainly showed that its owner understood
perfectly.
“The girls will be delighted,” she said, smiling, “and
those verses?”
“Here they are.”
And Mr. Sansoucy drew from his pocket an envelope,
which he handed to Lizzie.
-- 527 --
[figure description] Page 527.[end figure description]
“Oh, let me see them, said Aurelia.
“Hum,” said Mr. Sansoucy, with an embarrassed air,
“I think I would rather you would wait.”
“Wait, sir! indeed, I wont—give me, Lizzie!”
And Aurelia took the envelope, opened it, and with a
flitting blush, which deepened as she went on, read the
verses. The first ran thus:
“They come, dear golden memories,
Forever through the livelong day,
And when the light of evening dies
They glitter still, as spray.
“Flickers and glides along the green
Declivities of endless waves—
Memories of glories that have been—
Like blossoms upon graves!
“Dear heart! I feel its beating now,
Dear cheek! it lies beside my own,
Dear fingers press my weary brow,
And love, from childhood grown.
“Strikes the full giant's height and cleaves,
The shadows of the present hour,
And stands, like golden Autumn sheaves
Of grain and blossom and flower.
“O, happy poet! present light
May fade and die, no care to thee!
Thou livest in what has passed from sight
In love and memory!”
“Very pretty,” said Miss Aurelia, coloring brilliantly,
“now let us see the other.”
The second paper contained but two verses, which were
in quite a different strain, and it was evident that the
poet—melancholy, in spite of his boasts, when he penned
-- 528 --
[figure description] Page 528.[end figure description]
the preceding lines — had now recovered perfectly his
good spirits. The verses were:
“The dawn no more shall weep
Or the sun set on the day
But Nature, like a nymph asleep,
A low melodious breathing keep,
And the joy of life shall stay—
Since scattering flowers from snowy hands
She came to me from other lands!
“The owl no more shall cry
Through the dim and dreary night,
But the flickering lark against a sky
Of gold, soar up, and faint and die,
Like a beam of fresher light!
Come angel! come and make my heart
Like a glad fountain throb and start!”
“Very poetical and affecting,” said Aurelia, with a
blush deeper than before, and a careful avoidance of Mr.
Sansoucy's eyes.
“I am glad you admire them,” said Sansoucy, sighing
and smiling. “I am quite sure that I would not submit
them to any other tribunal. If you approve them, they
are perfect.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Aurelia, blushing more deeply
still; but making him a little courtesy, “but what is this
which has fallen from your pocket—this paper?”
“A paper?”
“Yes—in taking out the verses it came too.”
And Aurelia picked it up.
“Why it is a tract!” she said.
“True! how singular—it has remained in my pocket
ever since!”
“Since?—since when?”
-- 529 --
[figure description] Page 529.[end figure description]
“Since reducing it into my possession. Look! `Faith,
Hope, and Charity'—all I admire and long for in the world.”
“How mysterious, sir!”
“You shall judge if there is any mystery—I'll tell you
all about it.”
“Will you?” said Aurelia, laughing.
“Certainly.”
And Mr. Sansoucy related the history of the paper
picked up on the morning he had descended the stairs of
Joe Lacklitter's mansion.
“Who could the lady have been?” said Aurelia,
smiling.
“Really, I can't imagine—her veil was impervious.”
“Was it?”
“Wholly.”
“And no other indication?
“Presented itself? Not the least, my dear Miss
Aurelia—except I observed the perfume of extract of
violets, as she passed.”
And Mr. Sansoucy looked intently at Miss Aurelia—
why, he scarcely knew. She had on a brown dress, and
the handkerchief she held was perfumed with violets.
“You don't say!” suddenly cried Mr. Sansoucy
“What, sir?”
“That the lady—”
“What do I know about her?”
And Miss Aurelia smiled mischievously.
“Can it be possible!”
“That she found any difficulty in passing you on the
stairs? I don't know, of course. Did you get your gloves?”
-- 530 --
[figure description] Page 530.[end figure description]
And triumphing over the dumbfounded Mr. Sansoucy,
Aurelia was radiant with smiles.
The last words ended all doubt. The gloves left by
Mr. Sansoucy upon the chair in Joe's room, were evidently
those alluded to—and the veiled lady was as certainly
Miss Aurelia. Sansoucy understood all at once—and
easily recalled the visit he had paid formerly with Ellie
to Aurelia—their absence for a quarter of an hour up
stairs, wrapping up the dress—and consequently the
probability that Ellie had told Aurelia where she lived,
and all about her uncle.
As Mr. Sansoucy afterwards discovered, Aurelia had
exacted a promise from the child that she would not speak
to Mr. Sansoucy of her visits—and so she had intended
it should always be concealed. The visitor's astonishment
now, had led Aurelia into a jest, which cleared up the
whole mystery.
“I do not wish any further explanation,” said Sansoucy,
looking at the young girl with a softness which made her
cheek color; “I am very glad you know my good little
Ellie. Now, will you get ready for our excursion?”
Aurelia was glad to get away for an instant, and when
she returned, her face was as merry as before: and Mr.
Sansoucy's also.
The young ladies, Bel and Lizzie, had entertained him
with many amusing ideas and opinions, in the interim;
and such juvenile interviews never failed to put this
gentleman in a good humor, and fill his face with
laughter. The children kissed Aurelia, shook hands
with Mr. Sansoucy—and the door closed.
-- 531 -- p506-542
CHAPTER XVI. WHAT AURELIA SAW AND HEARD AT THE PICTURE GALLERY.
[figure description] Page 531.[end figure description]
Aurelia presented the brightest and most beautiful
appearance imaginable:—indeed, her cheeks were so
rosy, her eyes so blue, her hair so brilliant in the sunlight,
which made it resemble threads of gold, that Mr. Sansoucy
found his free will leaving him more rapidly than
even he anticipated. It was not her beauty, however,
which subdued this man, long used to fair faces and bright
eyes, and unaffected by them. It was the young girl's
innocence and goodness, her tender playfulness and utter
sincerity which chained him.
Mr. Sansoucy was no longer his own master.
They traversed thus the chill, brilliant streets, among
the crowd of wayfarers, and soon reached the picture
gallery.
It was simply a long apartment and a smaller one, in
which were arranged numerous fine paintings in oil, which
the public were invited to come and admire, at a very
moderate charge, at all hours of the day and for half of
the night.
The rooms were thronged with that diverse crowd which
represents, at all public spectacles, the vast army of sight
seers—and every one seemed to be interested and entertained.
There were old grey-headed men, who stood
stoutly before a picture and seemed to defy it to excite in
them the least admiration—there were little girls, who
-- 532 --
[figure description] Page 532.[end figure description]
tripped from side to side with diminutive hands, covered
with muffotees, and who, escaping from mamma, danced
in delight before a “little love of a baby” holding out its
chubby arms, and babbling—plainly on the canvass!—
to the smiling matron hanging over it. There were boys,
too, corrugating their faces in sympathetic appreciation
of a skating scene, in which an unfortunate urchin had
just produced that appearance in the ice called, technically,
a “star,” with his head—and whose countenance expressed
a height of misery affecting in the extreme. There were,
besides, young ladies of fifteen in their first long dresses,
and with curls bound up for this occasion, woman fashion,
who promenaded full of dignity, escorted by young gentlemen
of seventeen, with patent leather shoes which tortured
them, and standing collars, sawing through their ears, and
glossy hats borne gallantly beneath the arm: and this
class of the visitors would pause before the pictures celebrating
Paul's devotion to Virginia—or the deathless love
of the Moorish fire worshippers—before anything which
indicated everlasting faithfulness and gallantry. Last
of all came a few gentlemen of elegant appearance accompanied
by ladies still more elegant—and when the eyeglasses
of these visitors were levelled at the pictures, Titian
blenched, and Poussin hid his head—Murillo cowered
before them—and even Raphael, with all his glorious
tenderness, failed—passing like a dream away. That was
the real ordeal, and foremost among the dreadful connoisseurs,
was Heartsease.
Aurelia and Mr. Sansoucy passed through the crowd,
and exchanging greetings with many friends, made the
-- 533 --
[figure description] Page 533.[end figure description]
circuit of the room, admiring the pictures, which were
unusually fine copies—some of them indeed, originals.
They paused for some time before a picture, which was
painted with a rude vigor and breadth of design, which
produced a strange effect. It was one of the old Hebrew
prophets, with gaunt but muscular face, deep, cavernous
eyes, and hoary beard bending down towards a parchment,
upon which with a reed he traced the mystic sentences of
his prophecy. The parchment rested upon a stone, the
writer was on his knees, which his coarse robe half concealed;
and in the back-ground a bloody sunset reared its
huge battlements of crimson cloud, as though to typify the
woes denounced on the Hebrews by the pen of the writer.
The effect was so strong—the brow and eyes of the prophet
were so stern and yet awestruck, as he wrote—his
shoulders bent so low, almost crouching, beneath the
mighty weight of what flowed on him—that Aurelia and
her companion did not move for many minutes—silent
before that supreme spectacle of man, face to face with the
Almighty.
It was just as Aurelia returned to the world around her,
with a sigh, that she heard an amiable and languid voice
say gently:
“A good thing that, my dear Miss Ashton—isn't it?
Observe that toe bent back so naturally!—A fine piece
of coloring.”
And Heartsease, amiably simpering, held out his kid
glove to Sansoucy.
“Oh, Mr. Heartsease! what a criticism!” said Aurelia.
“You are surprised?”
-- 534 --
[figure description] Page 534.[end figure description]
“Yes, sir!”
“Well, I thought you knew I was a connoisseur, my
dear Miss Ashton!”
“Are you, sir?”
“I should think so! I flatter myself that excellent
detail of the picture—the toe—would not have struck an
indifferent observer. Say now, did you notice it?”
“Indeed, no! said Aurelia, who was beginning to experience
a strong desire to laugh at the unsuspecting selfsatisfaction
of Mr. Heartsease, “Indeed, I did not.”
“I thought so,” said Heartsease, with a good-humored
air, “it is more than we can expect of young ladies—”
“What, sir?”
“A knowledge of the details of art—those trifles apparently
by which it nevertheless achieves its greatest
triumphs.”
And Heartsease levelled his eye-glass at the toe, and
smiled.
“A little too much shadow under the nose,” he said,
raising his glass, “and the chiaroscuro of the lower portion
of the sky is too deep—but on the whole the general effect
is eminently pleasing. Ah, my dear Miss Emmeline!
your most devoted slave—ta, ta! my—Gosyp, you know,”
he whispered: and aloud, “dear Sansoucy, how I envy
you your companion!”
And kissing his fingers, Heartsease joined a lady who
had just entered, and disappeared in the crowd, smiling
and graceful, and full of the most delightful good humor.
“What a character!” said Aurelia, laughing, “he
amuses me to death.”
-- 535 --
[figure description] Page 535.[end figure description]
“Does he?” said Sansoucy, smiling.
“Yes, indeed.”
“Then I think you will not repent your walk.”
“Repent it?”
“Yes—for really I do not see much difference between
myself and Mr. Heartsease—we are both dilletanti.”
“Oh, how can you be so unjust!”
“Unjust?”
“To yourself.”
“I am not.”
“Indeed you are—a thousand times unjust.”
Sansoucy sighed and shook his head, with a faint smile.
“I believe I have some opinions which Mr. Heartsease
does not hold—but I had better beware how I arrogate any
credit on that point. It is very natural that you should
take my part—we have been friends so long, you know.”
“Yes, very long.”
“Do you ever think of old times?”
“Oh, yes.”
And for a moment the young girl's head sank.
“What a pity it is that we cannot return to them?”
he said, softly.
“I'm afraid we cannot,” she murmured, with a blush,
and a timid glance, which was the very perfection of
frankness and innocence.
“Will you try?”
“Yes,” she murmured.
“Come, then,” said Mr. Sansoucy, placing the little
hand upon his arm; “I will assist you.”
And he led the way into the smaller apartment of the
-- 536 --
[figure description] Page 536.[end figure description]
exhibition, where, indeed, only some half-a-dozen pictures
hung, and which the crowd, for a moment, had deserted.
As Sansoucy led the way into this apartment, a sudden
and inconceivably rapid thought made his heart throb,
and his cheek flush. If she did not feel the throb, did
not see the blush, she was without feeling, and blind—
but Aurelia did not exhibit any such knowledge.
Need we explain the cause of Mr. Ernest Sansoucy's
sudden emotion—need we say that like an honest fellow,
he had thought suddenly that she would go back to that
youth with him forever, if he held out his arms and said
“Come! come! Aurelia!”
He stopped before a little picture hanging by the
window, pointed to it, and said in a low voice:
“Do you recognize it?”
She started, and colored to the roots of her hair, and
murmured:
“It is—it is—!”
She could go no further.
“It is what I have kept always since that moment as
my dearest treasure!” said Mr. Sansoucy, unable to
control his feelings; “as my blessing, and my consolation!
It has gone with me every where, and made me
pure! It has never left me, and never will; for it will
lie upon my bosom when I am pale and cold, Aurelia!”
And his gaze, full of infinite tenderness, made her raise
her eyes, and look at him with tears and blushes.
“Aurelia! let me, like an honest gentleman—like
Ernest—the Ernest of your childhood—speak to you!
You are not prepared for this—I did not intend it—but
-- 537 -- p506-548
[figure description] Page 537.[end figure description]
my heart cries out to you! I cannot stifle it. Aurelia!
be my blessing, my treasure, my dear wife!”
And Sansoucy felt the heart throb beneath his arm
upon which her hand rested—saw her eyes fill with tears
of love and tenderness—took the small hand in his, and
nothing more was needed.
Heart spoke to heart, and laughed at such poor things
as words. And so it always will be, O, my friends! who
seriously investigate these deep, mysterious subjects!
The flood slowly rises—a trifle like the picture of Aurelia
in her childhood, makes it flow over—and then, with a
single look, a pressure of the hand, the terrible ordeal is
passed through. The fine speeches made by lovers at
full length in numerous romances, are forgotten; and the
Rubicon is passed.
Aurelia and Ernest certainly thus passed that renowned
stream, and entering beneath the fair Italian skies of love
and sunshine, did not know they walked home over ice, and
through a bitter wind. The world from that time forth was
warmth and light—the spring had come, to reign forever.
CHAPTER XVII. FINISHES MR. HEARTSEASE.
Following the want of romance writers in all ages, we
might here close up our history with the striking picture
of the incorrigible bachelor, Sansoney, safely landed on
the smiling shores of matrimony.
-- 538 --
[figure description] Page 538.[end figure description]
But this history unfortunately has busied itself about
other persons, and their adventures—and an event of no
small importance in the life of even Mr. Sansoucy, has yet
to be described and chronicled. We are thus compelled
to ask the kind reader to follow us still, spite of the length
to which his journey has extended; and in this further progress
we promise not to call his attention to a single personage
he has not made the acquaintance of already.
To present the remaining scenes of our narrative in
their full connection, and as distinctly as we can, we shall
return to Mr. Sansoucy, who sits in his office on the day
after the event just described, and in a frame of mind, not
different from what might be expected “under the circumstances,”
as say romantic historians of their heroes.
In other words, Mr. Sansoucy was supremely happy.
The whole world seemed to him bright and beautiful; and
a thousand voices seemed to sing to him, “Be happy! be
happy! happiness like yours is rarely given to the children
of this earth—be happy!”
And Sansoucy applied himself assiduously to the not
difficult task—and looked out with a smile upon the
cold bright snow—and felt the spring within his heart
warm all the bitter winter, thrusting up its blossoms and
bright flowers through all, and reigning queen of all!
He was sunk in one of those reveries which follow happiness
like a shadow, when a rapid step ascended the
stairs, and almost hastening—actually almost hastening—
into the room, Mr. Heartsease held out his hand, and
sighed with a brilliant smile:
“Give me joy, my friend! congratulate me on my bliss!”
-- 539 --
[figure description] Page 539.[end figure description]
“Your bliss, my dear Heartsease?” said Sansoucy,
“certainly! Oh, certainly! but what is it?”
“Haven't you heard?”
“No, indeed.”
“I forgot, my friend,” said Heartsease; “nobody
knows it—it has not been done an hour—”
“Not been done!”
“Assuredly not.”
“Nobody knows it?”
“Unless the respectable guardian of the lady:”
“Oh! the lady!”
“Certainly, the lady! Don't you understand?”
“Oh, perfectly! that is not at all.”
“Really,” said Heartsease, reproachfully, “the way a
man is treated by his friends: but I will not complain.
Learn then, my dear Sansoucy, that you see before you
the prospective husband of the beautiful Miss Gosyp.”
“Miss Gosyp!”
Emmeline, I call her. Her name is Emma; but I add
the line for euphony; though there are cynics who might
think I alluded to her delicacy and fragility of figure.”
“Miss Gosyp!” said Sansoucy, unable to repress his
surprise and laughter; “why you told me a month or two
ago that she had worried you to death.”
“A month or two, my dear fellow, is much further than
I can remember.”
“Ah?”
“Yes; and, doubtless, that annoyance, and the satire,
which I now recall, sprung from jealousy at seeing me
attentive to another.”
-- 540 --
[figure description] Page 540.[end figure description]
“Miss Gosyp—the antediluvian!” said Sansoucy, quoting
Heartsease.
“Oh, my friend! don't recall to me my terrible speeches;
you fill me with remorse.”
Sansoucy laughed.
“Congratulate me, rather.”
“Certainly, my dear fellow; and one thing is certain,
that your wife to be will not need your income, or any
part of it.”
“You allude to her wealth?”
“Yes.”
Heartsease shook his head.
“Such considerations have no weight with me,” he
said, sighing; “what I adore in Emmeline is her loveliness
of soul and brilliant wit.”
“Good! take care of that brilliant wit, my dear fellow!”
“Take care?”
“Or it will cut you.”
“Oh, no, never!” sighed Heartsease, rising; “I look
forward to a life of tranquil and domestic happiness.
Emmeline will not be witty with me, for I shall make a
model husband. I shall remain quietly at home every
evening—I shall become a thoroughly domestic character—
I shall rule my household with the mingled dignity and
kindness of a patriarch. Wives will point to me, and say
“look at him!” and Emmeline will bless the day she
placed her beautiful hand in mine and made me happy!”
Having uttered this speech with great gravity, Heartsease
pleaded the necessity of carrying the delightful
-- 541 --
[figure description] Page 541.[end figure description]
intelligence to his numerous friends; and so, kissing his
fingers, glided away—sighing and smiling to the last—
from the office of Sansoucy and from the present history.
But, perhaps, we may as well add, in this place, that
the result of wedlock in the case of Mr. Heartsease was
not so admirable and striking as he predicted. Instead
of leading a tranquil life, the joyous Heartsease grew more
fashionable than ever—instead of finding Emmeline a
tender spouse, he found her a terrible plague:—instead
of remaining quietly at home in the long winter evenings,
ruling his household with the dignity of a patriarch, and
causing Emmeline to triumph over other wives, and bless
the day she laid her lily hand in his, the gay and philosophic
Heartsease never staid at home, and caused the gentle
Emmeline to objurgate the happy day alluded to. Wherever
ball, or festival, or play was, there was Heartsease—still the
most amiable of butterflies, the most perfect of good fellows.
Never did a cloud pass over his serene and handsome
features—from his lofty height and dark curls, hyacinthine
still, as in his bachelor days, he looked down on the world,
and smiled, and lived his life. His only subject of enthusiasm
was Emmeline—for whom, he said, his tenderness
was so extreme, that nothing but his absence from her,
gave him any peace of mind. Having told you this with
the gentlest and most touching eloquence, the handsome
Heartsease would adjourn to billiards—thence to dinner
and his wine—then to a mild cigar, and other things
promotive of digestion and a tranquil conscience:—and
then at night you would meet him waltzing at the ball
with the gayest and most graceful languor—talking in
-- 542 -- p506-553
[figure description] Page 542.[end figure description]
the pauses of his dearest Emmeline, and saying that a
slight indisposition made it necessary for her to remain
at home. If occasionally his dearest Emmeline spoke
harshly to him, for his losses at the fascinating cards, he
did not answer again. Supreme in his good humor, and
unruffled by the strongest gales of matrimony, Heartsease
with his old sweet smile, would kiss his hand, and go
away to the theatre, and be the pride and ornament of
that bright universe. When last we had the pleasure of
beholding him, he stood, superlatively dressed, applauding,
with a gentle beating of his yellow kid fingers Misses
Kate and Ellen Bateman, whose performance he approved.
It was perhaps the most rational thing the amiable
Heartsease ever did—and there we leave him.
CHAPTER XVII. “SHE IS NOT HERE. ”
Sansoucy had resumed his reverie, and was fast forgetting
the existence of Mr. Heartsease, and, indeed, of
all the world besides, but one personage—Aurelia—when
a second step was heard ascending the stairs, and a
modest tap at the door, requested permission to enter.
Sansoucy sighed, and entered a silent protest against
the inimical fate which thus took pleasure in breaking
the chain of his bright thoughts: but still true to his
patient and yielding temper, he said, quietly, “Come in.”
The door opened, and little Ellie entered, with a modest
-- 543 --
[figure description] Page 543.[end figure description]
look in her mild eyes, and holding back, as if afraid of
intruding herself upon the attention of her friend, to the
prejudice of his occupations.
But Mr. Sansoucy no sooner caught sight of Ellie,
than his expression of patient submission disappeared;
and rising, with a smile of pleasure, he took the hand of
the child, and made her sit down by him.
“Well, Ellie,” he said; “pray, how are you, to-day?”
“I am very well, thank you, sir,” said the child, in her
soft, gentle voice.
“And Joe?”
“Oh, uncle is well, sir, and I never can thank you
for—”
“Well, never do. I like you, and my friend, Joe.”
“Uncle is very dear to me, sir.”
“That is because you are an affectionate and warmhearted
little creature, Ellie; it is a pleasure to do you
the least kindness, your gratitude is such a treasure.”
“Oh, sir!” said Ellie, with a glad look in her eyes:
“indeed, you make me very happy, and I am very
grateful.”
“But you have more friends to be grateful to than me,
Ellie,” replied Sansoucy, with a bright smile.
“More friends, sir?”
“Yes—the lady—”
“Oh, you know then, sir; I was so sorry I could not
tell you.”
“Why did you not?”
“She told me not to, sir—and you know she had the
right to ask much more than that.”
-- 544 --
[figure description] Page 544.[end figure description]
“Yes, indeed—and I, too, had the right to ask, if not
you, her for—”
And Sansoucy, with the gayety of a boy, looked at
Ellie, and smiled.
“To ask her, sir—?”
But Mr. Sansoucy did not make a direct reply to the
child's words or looks.
“Ellie,” he said, “would you like to see me married?”
“Married, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Would it make you happier, sir?”
“Yes, I think so—I think it will.”
“Oh, then, sir, I should love to see you married!”
This reply delighted Mr. Sansoucy beyond measure,
and he said:
“Suppose it was Miss Aurelia?”
“Is it, sir?”
“Yes,” said Sansoucy.
“Oh, I'm so glad, sir!” said Ellie, “she is so kind and
sweet.
Mr. Sansoucy caressed the brown hair of the child,
gently, with his hand, and said, with a look of radiant
happiness:
“Your pleasure, Ellie, makes my own greater. Yes,
Aurelia is more kind and sweet than any one I know in
all the world, and I shall be very happy if God lets me
be. I learned to put in that proviso from yourself, my
child—and that was a happy day when I met you—met
you, and talked with you, to learn from you the duties I
am called to, as a Christian gentleman—and some day
-- 545 --
[figure description] Page 545.[end figure description]
I shall be as much. I know, in your prayers, you bless
and pray for me, and that is more than all I could do for
you, Ellie.”
“Oh, sir! you saved my life! indeed, indeed! I pray
always for you! Oh, indeed, I never can do anything for
you—but that!”
And greatly affected by the kind words of Mr. Sansoucy,
Ellie's eyes filled with moisture, making them swim
in tender light, as she gazed timidly upon his face.
“What a simple, grateful heart you have, Ellie,” he
said, “I know your grateful feelings, but I do not deserve
them. Now tell me all about everything.”
“That is why I came, sir.”
“For what, Ellie?”
“I'm afraid Lucia is sick, sir, and requires the doctor.”
“Lucia?”
“The little orphan-girl, sir, whose father died early in
the winter.”
“Oh, I have heard you speak of her—and I saw her
once, I think.”
“Yes, sir.”
“She is beautiful—with long, dark hair—fair skin, and
black eyes—is she not?”
“Yes, sir—she is lovely, and so good! Oh, sir, she is
so good, and my heart bleeds for her.”
“How, Ellie!”
“She has suffered so much, sir. I tried to do all that
I could, and Sam and all: but she has got sick, and I
was made uneasy about her last night and this morning—”
-- 546 --
[figure description] Page 546.[end figure description]
“Is she much sick?”
“I am afraid so, sir: her face is so thin and pale—
oh! so thin and pale, and sweet. When she smiles, she
looks like a spirit, or what I think one is like!”
“Ah—so bad?”
“I think her mind has been wandering to-day, sir—
last night, when she kissed me, too, she said, `Ellie, do
you think the violets have come up'—”
“Violets?”
“Yes, sir—I think she and Sam were talking about
gathering violets some time ago, when the spring came.”
“Poor child!”
“I told her,” continued Ellie, “that they would soon be
up: and then she asked me if any violets grew in heaven—
oh, sir! I feel so badly about Lucia—for I love her
dearly—!”
“Come, then, Ellie, we will go for the doctor. I will
send Doctor Fossyl to Lucia, at once, though he would
take no pay for his attendance on your uncle. Come, my
child—poor Lucia!—come, we will go.”
And hastily wrapping himself up, Mr. Sansoucy, yielding
to his pity, descended the stairs, and followed by
Ellie, took his way toward the office of Doctor Fossyl.
The doctor bent his head, as he chewed, vigorously, an
old, dry crust, which, with a ham bone, served him for
dinner; and then asking Ellie about Lucia's condition,
fully, got into his carriage, which waited, and drove off.
Sansoucy followed him, with the child, and forgetting
his own dinner, sought, with her, the abode of Lucia.
The doctor met them on the threshold, and said:
-- 547 -- p506-558
[figure description] Page 547.[end figure description]
“She is not here.”
As he spoke, Mr. Sansoucy felt a weight upon his arm,
and looking down, saw that Ellie was pale and faint.
CHAPTER XIX. LUCIA GATHERS HER FLOWERS.
The sun came up that morning with a beauteous splendor,
such as August, in its loveliest hours of dawn-illumined
foliage, might have envied; and though Winter
laughed at him—the bitter, harsh old Winter!—still he
shone; and making all the vast, bleak fields of snow shine
as he came, went onward to his noon.
Mounting, he shone on Lucia, with her pale, sweet face,
and gentle smile, bending above her fire, and dreaming,
with a look fixed far away, of some bright land—some
far, bright land—and smiling at the happy vision of her
heart, and reaching out her arms toward it gladly, as a
child toward the object of its love.
Raising her head—so faint now and so beautiful—a
holier and happier light than any on this poor, cold earth
we live on, shone in the tender eyes; and on her lips the
lovely smile was eloquent of dreams, showing her visions
of love and happiness.
The sun rose higher, and the dear friend of her heart
came in and comforted her, and made the fire burn
brighter, and talked with her—but so sadly! ah, so sadly!
Was she not sick? Oh, no—so very well, though weak;
-- 548 --
[figure description] Page 548.[end figure description]
but she was happy. Ellie shook her head, and sighing,
said she had better cover herself and sleep, and she would
go for the doctor. And so she went.
The doctor! Why should she want the doctor! She
was well and happy—very well, and oh, so very happy!
And then gazing on the sun, now soaring up in beauteous
splendor, she rose from her seat, and clasped her hands
and smiled, and tears of happiness flowed from her eyes—
tears of deep gratitude for what she felt towards the Giver
of this beauty.
Faintly, with absent eyes, as in a dream, she looked
upon the bright, gay, sparkling snow; and through it all
she seemed to see the flowers of spring, blooming on
grassy banks, by laughing streams—and the chill blast
was tempered to a sighing, warm south breeze, which agitated
tender foliage, in beautiful woods—and in the azure
skies of thought, the lark soared, joyously singing his
clear song of praise to Him who made the world so bright
and beautiful.
“Spring violets! how beautiful they are!” she murmured,
smiling; “they are waiting to be gathered—
beautiful violets, like the flowers of heaven!”
And looking toward the door, she seemed to see a
smiling form, which beckoned to her and said, come!”
She passed out smiling, and descended, and was in the
streets—and wandered on beneath the rich red rays of the
merry sun, toward the laughing fields.
How merry was the sun! How tenderly it lingered on
her form, and flooded all the street, and shone on every
wayfarer alike. It shone on lawyers going to their offices,
-- 549 --
[figure description] Page 549.[end figure description]
and on the wealthy merchants, hurrying to their countinghouses,
eager about invoices. It streamed upon a hundred
jovial citizens, returning with their trophies from the
market there below—and then returning to the little
organ-girl, entangled itself merrily in her dark, curling
hair, and filled her heart with joy and happiness. The
merry sun! He laughed so gleefully upon the shifting
weather-cocks, and on the tall, white, crimson-flooded
spires, which pointed up to heaven—and on the wings of
snowy pigeons, cutting the blue air, and circling joyously—
and on the little maiden, tripping on along the
street, toward school, and laughing merrily like him.
Lucia looked at her with a happy smile, and knew her
for the little dame whose uncle Robert was to make the
tableaus—and as now her sparkling eyes, and rosy cheeks
and lips, and golden curls, were lit up by the sun, until
she seemed to be the image of pure joy and loveliness, the
heart of Lucia went toward her as she came, and loved
her for her tender purity and beauty.
She came on thus, her merry eyes lighting up the
street—and looking at Lucia's thin face with a pitying
gaze, passed onward, without recognizing her again. And
so the distance twinkled with her little feet, so delicately
cased in red morocco, and her satchel, as she drew near
school, was swung more merrily—and then the corner
came between, and she was gone—and Lucia was happier
than before, for having seen that pretty, tender child.
The sun came to his noon, and bathed the world in glory,
and then waned away toward his setting, streaming still
on Lucia as he went to the west, and following her in all
-- 550 --
[figure description] Page 550.[end figure description]
her wanderings, through distant streets, toward the snow-clad
fields. The snow-clad fields! so bleak and vast, and
chill—where yet the violets and birds of spring were plain
to the child's vision, as she went on from the city.
So the sun faded, waning slowly over the white fields,
to his setting—smiling still upon the child, as though he
were not carrying away with him the warmth and life of
the great day—the warmth and life, too, from the frame
of the child.
As Lucia gazed upon the fading splendor of the west,
it seemed so beautiful—and then she thought how happy
she would be if heaven had given her some little brother
or sister to take to her heart, and play with, and tell all
about the happiness she felt. They would be so happy
now—the fair, warm days were coming—in the fields,
running o'er flowery meadows, and beneath the shade of
pretty trees, where violets grew and smiled.
And so the sun waned, fading slowly, and flushing for
the last time, the child's tender face, went from the
world:—and night advanced, with all its bitter winds—
and Lucia was faint.
She sat down on a bank, from which the snow had
melted, leaving the spring grass to grow: and leaning on
her arm, half thought, half dreamed:—half dreamed, for
was she not upon the border land of sleep? She saw so
many bright faced ones above her beckoning to her; and
they floated over her on long, still wings, and murmured
ever to her with calm, happy voices, bending over her
with smiles of infinite love. She heard so many dear,
sweet voices, whispering from the past—she felt upon her
-- 551 --
[figure description] Page 551.[end figure description]
brow, so clearly, though the night wind struck upon it
like a blade of steel, her mother's tender fingers, and her
father's kiss; and happy airs from lands of beauty and
delight, remembered dimly—dimly as in a dream—fanned
her pale brow, and made her happy.
She surely dreamed! for there, distinctly, was the quiet,
smiling home beneath beautiful skies—left years and years
ago, when but a little baby, but remembered well:—there,
plainly, were the places they had tarried in—the various
scenes of all her pilgrimage. They melted softly into one
dim haze at last—the quiet home—the splendid buildings,
and great seas, and sun-lit streets, and merry music,
played for laughing children—all melted finally in one
soft dreamy haze; and then she saw the smiling fields of
spring, happy and beautiful, and full of flowers, which
waved in gentle winds, and beckoned to her, smiling on
her as she came.
A soft and caressing atmosphere seemed to lie on the
beautiful fields she saw—a light, more pure than any
earthly light, poured on the smiling slopes,—and from
the distance, like a dream of joy and beauty, came a
figure, as of a bright shepherd, smiling on her with a love
and tenderness which words could not express.
The child's face flushed with a splendor that was
dazzling—her dim eyes glowed, then veiled their light—
and stretching out her arms toward the vision, she half
rose, with a sigh of happiness, which the chill wind bore
far away, but could not drown. The effort exhausted all
her strength—she sank back on the earth—the figure
came to her, and held out tender arms—and with a smile
-- 552 -- p506-563
[figure description] Page 552.[end figure description]
of infinite love and goodness, bent over her, and blessed
her.
The bitter wind was powerless now, with all his
strength—the spring had come—the child had gathered
violets, more beautiful than any upon earth—in fields
more bright and happy than the minds of men have
dreamed of—immortal flowers of happiness and peace,
such as grow only in the smiling fields of heaven.
CHAPTER XX. THE NOTE AND THE PACKAGE WITH THE CONSEQUENCES.
A week after these events, Sansoucy sat late at night
in his office, thinking sadly of the fate of Lucia, and pondering,
as all men do at some time of their lives, upon the
mystery, and strangeness of the great system, which illustrated
itself thus, by what seemed so discouraging to faith
and hope.
He ceased at last to think upon the matter, and gave
up the struggle. That struggle of his mind and heart
would surely never have taken place, if he had known the
vision of the child—he would have seen without difficulty
that what seemed death was life; that what to him appeared
to be a cruel and terrible misfortune, was, in truth,
the act of an all-wise and supremely merciful power; and
that the faintness in which she passed away, was but the
cloud hiding the everlasting light.
He dismissed all these thoughts at last, however—he
-- 553 --
[figure description] Page 553.[end figure description]
thought no longer of the despair of Wide-Awake and Ellie,
when they followed her footsteps and saw all—of the
weeping boy, as he stood beside the hillock on the hill,
across the river, where she had asked them to lay her—of
the tears shed by Aurelia, when he told her of the sad event.
His own future busied his thoughts, and he again read
the letter from his father, lying on his knee, and mused.
It said how happy his marriage with Aurelia would make
every one at Sunnyside—how his mother, who would write
to him immediately, sent him her love and blessing—and
how he must now give up his editorial life and come and
aid the failing strength of his father, in the management
of the estate, which needed him. All this, Sansoucy read
again and attentively considered. His whole heart assented
to this future, and thinking of Aurelia, he was beginning
to smile again, when a step ascended—stopped at his
door—and without knocking or asking his permission
a woman entered.
It was the miserably clad woman, whom he had nearly
run over, on the day of his sleigh-ride.
“You!” said Sansoucy, “you, at last! and at this
late hour!”
“All hours are the same to me,” said the woman, sinking
into a seat, and covering her face, “I like the midnight
better than morning.”
Sansoucy gazed at her in astonishment, and saw that
her breast heaved beneath the tattered wrapping of her
person.
“You excited my curiosity strangely, when we met some
weeks ago,” he said, “you seemed to know my father.”
-- 554 --
[figure description] Page 554.[end figure description]
“Yes,” murmured the woman, “I knew you were his
son.”
“How?”
“From the likeness.”
“When did you know him?—what is this mystery?—
speak! for you are evidently sane!”
“I doubt it sometimes,” said the woman, in a low voice,
“I have had enough to try my brain.”
“Enough!”
“That is I have been guilty of enough—”
Sansoucy gazed closely at her, and said:
“Guilty!”
“Yes,” she murmured, hoarsely, “deeply guilty, and
toward you—toward your father—toward your mother,
and all your family!”
The woman paused, and seemed to be overwhelmed with
emotion. Mr. Sansoucy gazed at her with the profoundest
astonishment, and was silent.
“This is all folly in me,” said the woman, regaining
her voice, and speaking with more distinctness, “I did
not come here to make you pity me—I came to try and
ask you to help me—to do away with the consequences of
my crime. It affects you, sir, and if you will listen, I will
tell you all.
Mr. Sansoucy remained silent, and lost in astonishment.
He gazed for some moments at the woman, who seemed
to avoid his eye, and then seeing that she waited for some
reply, said:
“Speak! I will listen.”
“Do not interrupt me.”
-- 555 --
[figure description] Page 555.[end figure description]
“I will endeavor not to—but speak! A crime! and
a crime connected with my family—speak!”
“Yes—connected with your family ten years ago.”
“Ten years!—”
“Listen, sir, and I will explain everything,” said the
woman, and pausing to collect her strength, she went on:
“Ten years ago, your mother engaged as a nurse for her
baby, a woman who was the wife of a German laborer,
whom she had married, and who was so poor that she was
obliged to leave him, and take some separate employment
to support herself—gain daily bread. Your mother heard
of this woman, who was an American woman, in this great
poverty—and from motives of charity—she engaged her
to nurse her own child, which her bad health rendered it
impossible for her to do herself. The woman had lost her
only child, herself, a short time before—and she was glad
to gain employment which promised to maintain her in
comfort. She had no feeling higher than that—she was
dull and gross, but a woman of violent and bitter passions
when she was aroused; she never forgave any one, and
had frequently come to blows with her husband whom she
despised and ruled, for he became afraid of her at last.”
Sansoucy gazed with a vague look of wonder at the
woman, as though a thought were struggling in his mind
to which he could not give words.
“The woman went to your father's,” his visitor continued,
hoarsely; “and for a time was perfectly satisfied,
and lived more happily than she had ever done before.
But gradually she found reasons to dislike her employer—
he was a high-minded man, but with a temper when he
-- 556 --
[figure description] Page 556.[end figure description]
was aroused, as violent as her own.—Do not stop me, sir,
let me get through!—and this violence of temper upon
both sides caused the woman and Mr. Sansoucy to quarrel
more than once. The woman was afraid of losing her
situation, and kept down her feelings—that is she did not
utter them—but they were all the more violent on that
account from being suppressed. Her habits were bad
sometimes—she had acquired a fondness for brandy in her
poverty—and whenever Mr. Sansoucy found that she had
been drinking anything, his anger knew no bounds.
“Things went on in this way for more than six months,”
continued the speaker; “and all this time the woman's
hatred and revengeful passions had been increasing, and
growing more bitter and black. She began to think how
she could be revenged upon him—let me, speak, sir! if
you start so I can't go on. She thought of a dozen ways
to revenge herself on him, but was afraid to do anything,
and waited. One day, however, she drank more brandy
than usual, and came in with the baby in her arms reeling.
Mr. Sansoucy was already nettled about something, and
his passions were driven to fury by the sight of the
woman's condition. He tore the baby from her arms—
struck her on the face with his open hand, and taking her
by the shoulder, dragged her out of the room and threw
her off like a dog. This made the cup run over—her
drunkenness gave way to a fury and thirst for revenge so
deep that she grew almost mad. She made up her things
in a bundle—went into the nursery at night—and while
all were sleeping took the sleeping child, and carried it
away with her, and in spite of all pursuit, gained this city,
-- 557 --
[figure description] Page 557.[end figure description]
worn out with weakness, but burning with hatred and
revenge! Your eyes are like fire, sir! but let me go
on—don't look at me! From this place the woman, who
had schooling and knew very well how to write, wrote a
letter to your father, taunting him with his failure to find
her, and declaring that she would sail that day to a
foreign country, and place the child in the hands of those
who would beat and cripple and starve it, and bring it up
to all the vices of a great city—she would do this if she
did not kill it, as she had the right to do in return for his
blow—her letter said all this, sir.”
The woman trembled from head to foot as she spoke,
and did not dare to look at Mr. Sansoucy, whose eyes
glared in his deadly pale face, like coals of fire.
“Go—on!” he said, hoarsely.
“The woman did sail,” the visitor continued; “she did
go to foreign parts in a trading sloop, which sailed that
very day—”
“And took the child!” cried Mr. Sansoucy, seizing her
wrist and speaking through his clenched teeth; “dare to
say!—”
“She left it behind,” said the woman, trembling; “but
you frighten me, sir!—”
Sansoucy drew back and clutched the arm of his chair,
until the wood cracked.
“Go on!” he said, hoarsely.
“The woman was afraid—she was poor—she knew that
the letter itself was a bitter revenge—she wrapped the
child just as it was in a blanket, and on the night she
sailed—left it lying at the door of a poor-looking house,
-- 558 --
[figure description] Page 558.[end figure description]
which a woman seemed to occupy, in one of the streets of
this place. She got her passage in the sloop by agreeing
to work and help—and she staid away long enough to
drink the dregs of misery and want. She then felt how
despicable she was—she determined to come back, and
try to restore the child; she met its elder brother, and
was nearly killed by his horses as she deserved—I was
the woman, and you can punish me as you choose!”
She stopped—breathing heavily, and avoiding his eye.
“I tried to find the child—I have been searching day
and night,” she added hoarsely; “we did not live here,
then, though my husband has moved here, now. I did
not take notice of the street. I do not know if the child
is alive, even. I come to tell you that the rest remains
with you; I have done all I could. I have bitterly
repented, and am ready to submit to any thing you order,
or any punishment you inflict!”
Her head sank as she uttered these nearly inaudible
words, and she dared not look at Mr. Sansoucy. At
last she raised her eyes, and gazed, almost with terror
upon him. His face was as pale as death—his lips—
gnawed until they bled, that his emotion should not carry
him away—were tightly drawn over his closed teeth, and
his eyes burned into the woman's very brain with a terrible
intensity of anger, horror, and disgust.
But this expression yielded, in a few moments, to one
of pain and anguish: and, turning away his head, he
said, with a hoarse moan:
“Go! you have brought up all we have suffered by
your crime, again—go! My sister is dead!—or, if not
-- 559 --
[figure description] Page 559.[end figure description]
dead, lost to us. Your punishment lies with God—go!
go from me!”
And he pointed to the door with such agony and sternness,
that the woman was driven, as it were, by his look,
and heavily, step after step, with her eyes fixed upon him,
obeyed and disappeared.
Sansoucy's face sank in his hands, and from the bottom
of his heart a passionate sob tore its way to his lips: and
he cried, in a tone of cruel anguish:
“Oh, my sister!—oh, my poor, poor mother!”
The long hours of the night passed over him one by
one, and the last found him in the same position as at
first—his face covered with his hands, his breast heaving,
his fingers wet with tears, which streamed between them,
speaking with that dreadful eloquence, which, in such
eyes, they possess. There are tears which, as they fall,
seem to burn and flame up, like some terrible acid,
poisonous and frightful—let those who cause such, beware
what they do.
Morning came at last, and, still motionless, Sansoucy
revolved in his feverish brain, the course which he should
pursue. He would move heaven and earth, but he would
know where his sister was, or when and how she had
died—he would throw from him everything, love and
business, and hope and memory; that search should
absorb his life, and he would force the secret from the
very jaws of silence! As he rose, pale and calm, a voice
at his door, made him start.
It was a servant, who held in his hand a note.
“What is it?” he said.
-- 560 --
[figure description] Page 560.[end figure description]
“From Miss Aurelia, sir.”
He took it, and opened it.
“And this I was to give you, too, sir,” added the servant,
giving Mr. Sansoucy a small package.
Mr. Sansoucy caught it from his hand, and motioning
him away abruptly, sank into a chair, and tore open the
package.
The note told him, that in handling the lace cap she
had received as a prize at the fair, she had found in the
lining—carefully sewed in—what she had sent him.
The package contained the baby's lace cap, and in a
small piece of white tissue paper, a little flat golden clasp
for the arm of a child.
Upon this plate was engraved, in distinct letters,
“Ellen Sansoucy,”
For a moment, Mr. Sansoucy felt as if he was about to
faint: then he rose like a giant, and, seizing his hat, went
hastily down stairs.
With inconceivable rapidity he hurried to Mr. Ashton's—
learned where the books of the Fair, containing the
names of contributors were to be found; discovered from
them that the lace cap, with the rest of the dress, had
been contributed to the table where the lottery was held,
by Monsieur Guillemot's friend, Madam “Angelique,” as
he called her:—and then, devoured with excitement, he
leaped into a carriage, and bade the driver gallop to the
shop. Ten minutes after entering it, he had learned that
the dress had been pawned—the shopkeeper recollected
very well that it had been brought by Ellie; and five
minutes after receiving this information, Mr. Sansoucy
-- 561 -- p506-572
[figure description] Page 561.[end figure description]
had in his arms, pressed to his heart, the form of Ellie,
whose face he covered with his kisses and his tears.
Ellen Lacklitter was Ellen Sansoucy, his long-lost
little sister.
CHAPTER XXI. THE STRUGGLE.
Here we might end our history definitely, with the
picture of love and charity rewarded, even on earth—with
Ellie pressed to her kind brother's heart, and very happy.
We might properly arrest, at this point, our story, and
leave all those explanations, involved in every chronicle,
to the imagination of the sympathizing reader.
But, perhaps, it will be better for the history to linger
still for a brief period, in its old haunts—and, therefore,
we shall proceed to say what followed these events—and
how the drama of Mr. Sansoucy's and Ellie's city life
came to an end.
Sansoucy held then in his arms, pressed to his true, loving
breast, the form of his long-lost sister—but alas! this
form was not the Ellie of the past—smiling and happy,
and well. The child had received a terrible shock from the
death of Lucia—she had sunk down on the snow beside her,
when hurrying on with Wide Awake and Sansoucy, she had
come with them to the last footsteps of the organ girl and
to her form, stretched on the earth, and smiling even in
-- 562 --
[figure description] Page 562.[end figure description]
death—and then she could not be prevailed upon to stay
at home, when, slowly and silently, the friends of Wide
Awake following him, the body of Lucia was committed
to the earth from which it sprung.
The trying emotions and the bitter cold to which she
had been exposed, prostrated the child, worn out with many
griefs and so much exposure, all through the bitter winter:—
and thus, when, clasping her in his arms, and covering
her face with tears and kisses, Mr. Sansoucy pressed her
to his heart, calling her his dear little, long-lost sister,
Ellie's cheeks blushed crimson—then grew pale, and
sinking back, she had fainted in his arms.
In great alarm, she was laid upon the old bed of Lacklitter,
and a message sent immediately for Doctor Fossyl:—
the child was evidently sick. Sansoucy bent over her,
and watched her feeble breathing with an anguish which
he could not suppress—and it will easily be understood
that this sudden attack of disease, threatening to snatch
from his grasp the treasure just discovered, was enough
to try his utmost equanimity.
Doctor Fossyl came, and made his diagnosis, and shook
his head,
“Cerebral excitement and exposure,” he said, with one
hand on the child's wrist and the other on her forehead.
“The hand is burning, and the brain hot—she must not
stay here in this exposed room.”
Sansoucy gazed for a moment at the doctor with a look
of anguish which made even that stoical personage turn
away: and then he glued his lips to the thin hand of
Ellie and, covering his face, sobbed wearily.
-- 563 --
[figure description] Page 563.[end figure description]
A carriage was soon brought—Sansoucy wrapped up
the child and took her in his arms—and soon they reached
Mr. Ashton's, whither Sansoucy proceeded without
ceremony.
If he had doubted the propriety of such a step, the
warm and loving reception of the child soon dissipated
any such uneasiness: in an hour Ellie was lying warmly
covered, in the comfortable apartment of the two children.
We need not pause to say how deep the astonishment
of every one was, at the narrative of Mr. Sansoucy—
showing his connection with Ellie; and by what singular
steps he had come to trace the child's history from her
abandonment by her nurse to the present moment—and
to verify the fact that she was his sister. Little Bel and
Lizzie gave it up completely, not being able to understand
or believe it; and it was only the elder persons of the
family who comprehended at once, and without difficulty,
this new illustration of the secret ways of Providence.
So surrounded by loving faces, and hands ready to
supply her least wants, and bestow soft caresses, the child
lay for weeks—her frame battling with the fever which
fired her blood, and made her at times delirious. With
flushed cheeks, and eyes preternaturally bright, she would
lie and gaze for hours at the sky through the window—and
only when the close kiss upon her hand, and the hot tear,
attracted her feeble attention, did she turn from the blue
sky of the coming spring, and gaze with tender wonder on
the thin, grief-wasted face of him who watched at her
side, and felt every pang of her disease, and wept and
prayed for her.
-- 564 --
[figure description] Page 564.[end figure description]
At times the child would wander in her mind, as we
have said, and then it was a touching spectacle—her thin
face illumined by the internal light of sad but happy
thought. At such times her lips would gently part, and
with a happy smile she would murmur:
“Beautiful! Oh, very beautiful!—the angels on their
long white wings, bearing her in their arms. But how
pale you are, Lucia! Oh, how pale—but your face is
happy, very, very happy!”
Then she would wander off to the scenes through which
she had passed, and a sad look would dim her eyes, and
she would murmur again:
“Oh, how cold it is! The snow is falling all the time,
and by night it will be deep enough to cover any one that
falls down on the ground! There is a child going
through the snow—she is shivering!—where is she going
on such a cold, dark day? Oh, it is wrong to let her go;
and she is not covered from the wind and cold!—Oh, it's
not right—why don't rich people give her clothes, and
something to eat?—for her feet move as if she was going
to fall. Oh, help her! help her—the Saviour died for
her, as well as for you!”
Doctor Fossyl would shake his head, and mutter:
“That tells the story of this fever—give me the draught—
she must sleep, and her brain rest.”
The draught would be then given the child, and she
would slowly close her eyes, and forgetting her snow-picture,
smile as she gradually sunk to slumber, murmuring:
“Are you my brother?—are you my real brother?
-- 565 --
[figure description] Page 565.[end figure description]
Oh, how dearly I love you—you were so kind and good
to me—so very, very kind, and good, and dear to me—a
poor little child, with nothing but my love—”
“Nothing but a treasure greater than the thrones of
kings!” he would murmur as she slept, covering his face
as he spoke, and sobbing. “Nothing but what the whole
world could not make me yield one particle of!—what
death cannot take from me!—for it will bless and pray
for me in heaven, among the angels, before God!”
And all who stood around the bed would go away, and
leave the strong man alone with the child—bending down
and choking his deep sobs, and trying to pray for help—
for mercy.
At times the child would suffer terribly, and it was in
these paroxysms that her faith and trust seemed to rise up
like a flame of pure fire, and drive away every pang, and
strangle the burning fever. Even the hard Doctor Fossyl,
long used to scenes of pain and disease, and those struggles
of mind against matter, which give such a terrible
interest to his profession—even the harsh doctor would
stand silent, with his thin hand covering his gaunt chin,
gazing upon her, and pondering new thoughts.
One day, when her fever was in the height of one of
these paroxysms, Aurelia, bending over her with eyes
streaming with tears, said, sobbing:
“Do you suffer much, Ellie?”
“Yes, ma'am,” said the child, faintly, “but I try to
bear it—I can bear it—strength is given to me.”
And she murmured some words, which the crouching
head of Doctor Fossyl bent forward to catch.
-- 566 --
[figure description] Page 566.[end figure description]
“What was that?” he said.
“A hymn, sir.”
“What?”
The child looked at him for a moment, and then, with
cheeks flushed with the fever, but in a voice low and distinct,
repeated:
“When pain transfixes every part,
Or languor settles at the heart;
When on my bed, diseased, oppressed,
I turn and sigh, and long for rest,—
O, great Physician! see my grief,
And grant thy servant sweet relief.
“Should poverty's destructive blow
Lay all my worldly comforts low;
And neither help nor hope appear,
My steps to guide, my heart to cheer;
Lord, pity and supply my need,
For thou on earth wast poor indeed.
“And at my life's last setting sun,
My conflicts o'er, my labors done,
Jesus, thy heavenly radiance shed,
To cheer and bless my dying bed;
And from death's gloom my spirit raise,
To see thy face and sing thy praise.”
“`To see thy face and sing thy praise!”' the sallow
physician murmured, with a strange look in his deep-set
eyes, over which his heavy brows drooped down, nearly
concealing them: and looking on the child in silence, and
with vacant eyes, his own childhood seemed to flow back
on him, and his livid forehead flushed, and from the bottom
of the long-chilled heart an inaudible whisper rose
and fled to heaven, and made the countless multitudes
rejoice—“I believe; help thou my unbelief!”
-- 567 --
[figure description] Page 567.[end figure description]
From that moment it seemed that Doctor Fossyl braced
every nerve for the breast-to-breast struggle with his
gigantic enemy. Devouring, with a rapidity which resembled
intuition, every reported case in his vast library, and
with a burning brain, overloaded with all his profound
experience, he would hasten back to Ellie's bed-side, and
there, face to face with death, grapple and fight with him
as if the lives of a thousand emperors, the hopes of
nations, hung upon the frail, wasting thread of that one
child's life. He never slept—day and night he was at the
child's bedside, with her hand in his, his eyes glued to her
face, his body crouching and bent forward, as to catch the
faintest sigh, the most imperceptible indications of her
condition: and his strength seemed never to flag, his
body to need nourishment or rest. Burning, it seemed,
with a personal hatred and fury toward the disease which
struggled with him, he caught it and held it in his iron
grasp, and bent it down beneath him, and so triumphed
over it, and saved her.
The hot fever slowly yielded in the contest—the child's
eyes were no longer preternaturally brilliant—the flush
of disease faded slowly from her cheek—and gradually
as the hours and days passed on, she grew calmer and
stronger: and the physician, rising from the struggle,
looked for a moment on the life he had snatched from the
jaws of death, and went away, and sank down overwhelmed
and powerless himself, before the enemy he had
conquered.
Let us here add, as we take leave of him, that he
recovered—and in a month or two, was again following
-- 568 --
[figure description] Page 568.[end figure description]
his profession. But he was not the same man—his
cynical humor had all passed away—and from the height
to which he had ascended, he looked back upon his former
life, and wondered at it, and blessed the day that he had
known the child.
So Ellie slowly recovered—day by day, gaining
strength;—and in the light and warmth of the now
blooming spring, far more in the light and warmth of all
those loving faces and kind, tender hearts, her health and
happiness came back, and resting on the heart of him
whose blood flowed in her veins—who loved her so—she
heard how they were going far away to the bright fields
her infant eyes had looked on, to be happy.
The children, Bel and Lizzie, had almost come to “high
words,” who should attend to Ellie—and the extravagant
affection of these little dames, was warmly returned by the
child, who had been treated by them both with a kindness
and tenderness which made her happy when she thought
of it. On the day she came down for the first time, Bel
and Lizzie had their first serious quarrel, and the subject
of the quarrel was the dress which Ellie should wear.
Bel advanced warmly, and with great eloquence, the
claims of a beautiful pink frock, with flounces, and a
darling love of a basque—while Lizzie was still more
eloquent upon the subject of her best blue mouselain,
with open sleeves, and laced in front—just look how
beautifully!
The quarrel ended on the appearance of Aurelia,
holding in her hand a pretty dress of pearl color, and
followed by her maid, also full handed:—and so Ellie
-- 569 --
[figure description] Page 569.[end figure description]
came down and was taken into the open arms of one who
had the best possible right to disappoint both of the
young ladies—Mr. Sansoucy.
Two days afterwards, Aurelia, who had delayed her
return, on account of Ellie's sickness, went back home—
leaving Mr. Sansoucy melancholy for the moment, but
not hopeless.
He was soon to follow her, after having carried Ellie
home—and now, for the first time, he wrote, at length,
the strange and touching story of the child's recovery, to
his mother. He had not written during her sickness,
from a motive easily understood—but now, that she was
well again, he wrote and told them all; and said that he
would come with the child before they could reply to his
letter.
Mr. Sansoucy then made all his arrangements—and
among these arrangements was one for nothing less than
the transportation of Joe Lacklitter and Charley to
Sunnyside—Joe to live upon the farm, doing just what
he chose, and Charley to carry about the green fields
imaginary journals for sale, and hoe in the garden, if it
pleased him, for variety.
Ellie had prayed for this; and the very life of the child
seemed to be involved in having thus beside her the loved
uncle who had loved her so—who was as dear to her, now,
as when she thought she had no other friends or relatives
on earth. With her arms around her brother's neck,
Ellie had besought him for this—and uncle Joe entering,
she had run to him, clasped him in her arms, and hidden
her face, as in old days, on his kind, honest heart.
-- 570 --
[figure description] Page 570.[end figure description]
Mr. Sansoucy needed no persuasion. Joe's love and
tenderness for Ellie had endeared him equally to all, and
never, never would any of their family forget the kindness
and protection he had bestowed upon the child—his
solicitude while she was sick and suffering—his joy when
she recovered, and they told him she was well. That
kind friend never would be forgotten; and it did not
require much persuasion to induce Joe to go and live and
help upon the farm.
Mr. Sansoucy, as he came out from the abode of Joe,
observed some workmen carrying a long sign toward
the former business stand of Captain Schminky, and
looking over the door of that establishment, he perceived
that “Schminky, Grocer,” had disappeared—as indeed
had the actual personage, we may as well inform the
reader—to parts unknown. Whether Mrs. Schminky
had represented to him the danger of a sojourn in Virginia
for both of them—or had simply used her will and
influence, we cannot say. But Schminky was among the
things of the past, as far as Richmond was concerned
Mr. Sansoucy walked on, but suddenly found himself
opposite to a gentleman and a lady who were passing—
and in the gentleman he recognized no less a personage
than Monsieur Guillemot.
Monsieur Guillemot cried out in ecstacy, at seeing his
cher ami, Mistare Sansouci; and then with a gentle wave of
his hand, presented—Madame Angelique Susanne Guillemot;
which lady Mr. Sansoucy recognized at once, and
bowed to, and shook hands with in a way which evidently
caused Monsieur Guillemot to feel himself a bankrupt in
-- 571 --
[figure description] Page 571.[end figure description]
the particular of thanks, and wholly unable to meet the
run upon him.
So they passed away to the neat dwelling of Madame,
which Monsieur Guillemot besought his friend Sansoucí
to enter and honor—but this being impossible, he passed
on, bowing and smiling pleasantly, to think that Guillemot
was no more bankrupt and a bachelor, but happy
and comfortable, and married.
He called by the post-office, and a letter from Mr.
Incledon was handed to him. It said that he was going
soon to study for the ministry—and meanwhile could not
Ernest pay him a visit—spring had come, and editorial
duties might wait for a season—there were young ladies
lastly in the house to entertain him, if he could not be
amused by one, who, praying God to bless him, was his
sincere and faithful Ralph.
Sansoucy smiled, and said:
“Yes, yes! the spring has come, and editorial duties
will probably wait long—and as for the young ladies,
faith! they amuse and interest me no longer; I'm not in
the market!”
And going to his office, he sat down and wrote Ralph
Incledon all about everything: and then his pathetic
farewell to the readers of the “Mammoth,” which he
penned with tears—of laughter; and then having done
all this, he put on his hat, and with a glad smile sought
Mr. Ashton's house and Ellie.
-- 572 -- p506-583
CHAPTER LAST. THE VICTORY.
[figure description] Page 572.[end figure description]
It was a beautiful May morning, and the spring had
fully come forth on the fields and woods with tender
green in grass and leaves, and a myriad of flowers nodding
up and down in the soft warm breezes blowing faintly
with perfume on their wings, from the far tranquil sea.
The showers of April had faithfully performed the duty
assigned to them—or rather stated to be regularly performed
by them—in the old proverb. All the world was
covered with the flowers, and on the banks of brilliant
streams which sparkled on through sun and shadow, over
emerlda fields, the beds of violets and buttercups and
all the early meadow-stars were positively dazzling.
The spring seemed fully determined to repay the earth
for the harsh blasts of the old winter, whose gloomy
thunder had long died away in the icy north—and so it
made the green earth smile and laugh—and scattered
over the world its brightest treasures—and inaugurated
such a merry, happy, golden time, that Maia, in her fullest
beauty and best spirits, even as she was represented in the
May-day song of the children, never could have looked so
beautiful, or dowered the earth before with so much
splendor.
On the flowery hill beyond the flowing river, and above
the city, a travelling carriage which was going southward,
stopped for a time, and getting out of it, two persons
gazed for a moment in silence on the scene—on the great
-- 573 --
[figure description] Page 573.[end figure description]
river, and the dipping foliage of the green isles which
dotted it—and on the far low plains bounded by hills
which held upon their tops the canopy of blue, over which
white clouds were floating in the warm south breeze—and
on the city over which a rosy mist drooped, half concealing
that snowy Parthenon, the Capitol; and the white spires
rising up to heaven.
We need not tell the reader that the personages who
thus paused to cast a last look on the scene of so many
sufferings and joys, and griefs and rejoicing, were Mr.
Sansoucy and his little sister.
Ellie was clad in her neat pearl-colored dress, and her
soft brown hair was brushed back from her pure forehead,
beneath the small bonnet. Her large blue eyes gazed
alternately upon the scene before her, and then with
inexpressible joy and tenderness upon the face of her
companion.
But Mr. Sansoucy for the moment does not think even
of Ellie—the future disappears with all its brilliant visions;
and floating back on the tide of memory, he seems to again
live over all his life in the busy hive—pass again through
its feelings and its scenes—live again all that life, colored
by memory.
He remains long, thus musing with far away dreamy
eyes—eyes dimmed now by a cloud, as he recalls some
sorrow—then brilliant and smiling, as he returns to some
scene of mirth and laughter. Finally, all these expressions
disappear—and bending down his head, he says with his
old, odd smile, faint, wistful, and unfathomable:
“Farewell, O city!—city that thinkest thou art much
-- 574 --
[figure description] Page 574.[end figure description]
in the universe, and art indeed possessed of life sufficient
to set up a number of Pekins, and some Amsterdams—
farewell! Thou art busy as I stand here looking on thee,
with a thousand schemes—and through thy veins and
artery-like streets, that hot blood, human life, flows ever
to and fro—and struggles, and battles, and foams in its
passage—never ceasing, ever flowing on—like the restless
current sustaining the spirit of life, in the actual frame of
man! Thou art busy with a thousand thoughts that are
not of heaven—seldom thy hot blood flows toward the
altars—seldom thy fiery eyes raise themeslves toward
those spires which point to heaven! Such art thou, O
city—heart of a land which has made history—and such
are thy occupations, thy passions, and thy struggles. Thy
struggles! for thou strugglest for ever—and the press
is rolling ever in thee—and the courts for ever echo in
thee—and the journals that chronicle thy daily heartbeats,
are full of the lawless things that riot for ever in thee!
Such art thou, beautiful city, sleeping nightly—if thou
indeed sleepest ever—to the murmur of thy waterfalls, and
waking to run on for ever in thy rapid course. Such art
thou, but who am I to be sitting in judgment upon thee,
or thy doings? Am I not like the rest—a thousand times
worse than thousands—a poor journalist who never so
much as knew the existence of the beauty and goodness,
and charity, and nobility of thy daughters and thy sons?
O beautiful city! What am I, to become thy critic—I,
who have been one of the throng—who have grown heated
often in thy struggles — who going now into the cool
country-lands, will feel like the fiery king, Jugurtha,
-- 575 --
[figure description] Page 575.[end figure description]
hurled into the cold prison, and muttering, as he falls,—
`How cool are thy baths, Apollo!' No! that is not
my feeling, heaven be praised—the country is not my
prison; or if it is, I have chosen it, and like my jailor!
Rather I'll say, `How beautiful are thy fields, O Maia!
thy smiling fields, laughing with tender grass and flowers!'
and so my fine apostrophe to thee, O city, ends! How
much of earnest mingles with the jesting, who can tell!”
And Mr. Sansoucy, with a look almost sad, turned
from the landscape, and looked at Ellie, who had listened
to these muttered words without comprehending them.
“Let us be thankful, dear,” he said, pressing his lips
to her pure brow, with deep affection: “let us be thankful
that the mercy of heaven has given you back to home,
and those you love—thank God for this, Ellie, if I do
not know how, yet; and taking your hands in mine, we
will kneel together—with prayers of love and gratitude
to that merciful being who blessed us with this supreme
blessing.”
His gaze dwelt softly upon the tender face, and the
eyes which filled with the dews of gratitude and happiness,
and he was silent, turning away and murmuring.
As he did so, they saw below them, on the slope of the
hill, the figure of a boy, who, with head bent down, approached
an enclosure, in which a single white stone,
marked the last resting place of one who slept.
The boy stood by the green hillock, on which bloomed
a bed of flowers, and, clasping his hands, sank down, and
hid his face in the long grass, and the flowers upon the
grave.
-- 576 --
[figure description] Page 576.[end figure description]
It was Wide-Awake at the grave of Lucia; and Ellie
gazed at him, and tears came to her eyes, and she was
silent—but not so silent that her brother did not hear
her murmur:
“Thou, Savior, seest the tears I shed,
For thou did'st weep o'er Lazarus dead.”
“Yes, Ellie,” said Sansoucy, folding her in his arms
with deep love and tenderness: “that Saviour raised you
almost from the dead; for this, and all his love and
mercy, I will be his child and servant—let us go.”
And with his arm round the child, who clung to him,
and shed happy tears, and smiled, he returned to the
carriage, and entered with her, and gave the signal to
the driver to continue his way.
In ten minutes the carriage had disappeared behind
the green foliage toward the south.
THE END.
Back matter
-- --
[figure description] Free Endpaper with owner's inscription.[end figure description]
Crossing the Bar
Sunset and evening star
And one clear call for
me
And may there be
no moving of the bar
When I put out to
sea
But such a tide
as moving seems asleep
To full for sound or
foam
And that which drew
from out the boundless
deep
Turns again home!
-- --
[figure description] Free Endpaper.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Paste-Down Endpaper.[end figure description]
Cooke, John Esten, 1830-1886 [1855], Ellie, or, The human comedy. With illustrations after designs by Strother. (A. Morris, Richmond) [word count] [eaf506T].
|
