6. 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:
“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
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.
“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
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—”
“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
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.
