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