 | CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE WAYS OF PROVIDENCE. Ellie, or, The human comedy |  |
38. 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
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.
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
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
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
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!
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.
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!”
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
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
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.
| CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE WAYS OF PROVIDENCE. Ellie, or, The human comedy | |