University of Virginia Library

15. 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.

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

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

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. 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.

“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:

“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

the preceding lines — had now recovered perfectly his
good spirits. The verses were:

“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?”

“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?”

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.