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
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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
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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
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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.
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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.”
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“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
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—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,
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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.
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“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!”
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“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.
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Cooke, John Esten, 1830-1886 [1855], Ellie, or, The human comedy. With illustrations after designs by Strother. (A. Morris, Richmond) [word count] [eaf506T].
