 | Ellie, or, The human comedy |  |
1. BOOK I.
1. CHAPTER I.
RICHMOND: ON A DECEMBER MORNING.
On the first day of the month of December, in the year
18—, and just at sunrise, a child was going along one of
the lower streets of the city of Richmond—in the quarter
called, for some reason, “Bird-in-Hand”—her poorly-clad
figure brilliantly illuminated by the morning sunlight
raining its gold upon the chill houses and cold pavements,
her shoulders unconsciously shrinking from the bitter
wind.
She was a child of ten or eleven: she was poor: she
was called Ellie.
But we shall not dismiss our heroine—who is destined
to color, more or less, every page of this book—in a manner
so hasty and unsatisfactory. The child had the finest
brown hair in the world; and this hair waved, rather than
curled, around a countenance from which a pair of large
face with the softest and most confiding simplicity. The
lips were somewhat sad it is true, and they wore that expression
which seems to indicate suffering at times;—but
this expression was by no means marked or striking—
and a careless observer would have said that the face of
the child was in powerful contrast with her poor and dilapidated
clothing. This clothing consisted of an old
hood of wadding, discolored by the sun and wind of years
—a thin frock of the cheapest and commonest material,
and a shawl of the same description—while her feet were
scarcely covered by her thin worn shoes, which the chill of
the pavement penetrated at every step. The child, in a
word, looked poverty-stricken, but quite content and hopeful,
and the sweet face was such as any sun might have
been glad to shine upon.
On this morning the sun left no detail in the back-ground—the
red light twinkled on her instep, and lit up
joyously the thin folds of her old worn shawl, and even
plunged back into the hood, and turned the ripples of her
brown hair into gold.
In her hand the child carried an old broken pitcher, and
she had managed to wrap the hand in her old shawl before
grasping the handle, in order to protect that portion
of her person from the biting wind.
It might have been thought that she was going to the
market, which was visible two or three squares away, in a
comparatively splendid quarter of the city, for everything
and everybody seemed to be moving in that direction. It
would seem to be the most reasonable thing in the world,
been on her way toward those rich realms of hams and
steaks and legs of mutton, toward which the flood poured,
jostling the market-carts, and bewildering the oracular-looking
donkeys who gazed at everything from beneath
their shaggy eyebrows, as they munched their scanty provender
in the stationary carts. But it soon appeared that
this was not the child's intention. She looked wistfully at
the bright, cold, glittering scene—uttered something like a
sigh, and drawing her old shawl more tightly round her
shoulders as the wind beat against them, turned into a
grocery store at the corner.
It was one of those receptacles of everything eatable,
drinkable and wearable, which are generally kept for
the convenience of families buying in small quantities.
The portly landlord of this hostelry was reading his newspaper
by a stove comfortably warmed; and was evidently
of Germanic extraction. This indeed might have been
surmised from the sign or legend inscribed in gilt letters
above the door without—“Schminky, Grocer;”—but a
single look at the actual Schminky at once verified this
view. He was rotund, red and solemn—“lager” was
written in his eyes, and his German pipe was in his hand
ready to be lighted. He was framed like a picture in a
background of hams, flour barrels, strings of onions, and
barrels of beer; and possessed that staid and dignified air
which lords of the manor have possessed in all ages of the
world.
The child came in, and asked in a timid voice if he had
any milk that morning.
Captain Schminky, for this was his rank, uttered a surly
no, and went on with his paper.
Now, it is quite probable that this circumstance might
have embarrassed a common child; but our little friend
only moved her head very slightly, and quietly went out
closing the door as Captain Schminky lit his pipe.
She turned towards the market and was soon entangled
like a poor flower in its weedy mass. She looked wistfully
at the long rows of “cuts” of all possible descriptions,
which she had now gained a nearer view of; and
this time actually and unmistakeably sighed.
She would have liked to have purchased a little piece of
that tempting meat, or a very few of those attractive looking
vegetables—she scarcely dreamed of the delight of
possessing the finer things daintily spread out for public
admiration;—the child, we say, would have been made
happy by the purchase of the smallest portion of the
enticing stores set forth; but looking at her small coin
sadly, she abandoned any half-formed idea she had con-ceived.
She passed by all the tempting stalls, sought out a milk
cart, and purchased some of the milk. She then crossed
from the market to a baker's shop, and exhausted her whole
stock of money by reducing into possession a small loaf
of bread. She then retraced her steps, drawing her shawl
around her shoulders—passed by the surly grocer's—and
came finally to a sort of hovel, a few steps back from the
mean foot-way.
A low door gave her entrance, and she passed through,
depositing her pitcher and loaf upon an old pine table.
The room was poor and humble to the last degree, but
was also scrupulously neat. The narrow bed in the corner
was as tidy as hands could make it; and you lost sight
of the old tattered counterpane, if such the covering could
be called, in admiration of the elegance with which it was
arranged. The floor was clean swept, the old broken
chairs—including the one without a leg, and the two without
backs—were set against the wall; and the fire-place—
in which two or three small brands of wood smoked, giving
out an imaginary warmth—had been swept up as carefully
as if it were of marble.
At the foot of the old bed a little door led into a sort
of shed, where, it was reasonable to suppose that the
child had her own bed.
As the girl set down her burden, the door re-opened
behind her, and a little boy, whose clothing was one consolidated
rag from top to toe, made his appearance. He
had a pleasing face, and a shock of yellow curls; but at
the moment his face wore an expression of much discontent.
The girl had said as she came in, “I wonder where
Charley is!” and to these words the child answered:
“Here's Charley, and I wish you'd make haste and giv'
me some breakfus.”
“I will directly, Charley,” the girl said, “we must wait
for Uncle Joe, you know.”
“I wish he'd come on; and I wish you'd make haste,
and not take so long to fix yo'-self in the mornin,” observed
Charley.
“I had to, Charley. Indeed, I had to put on all I had,
and my shawl; it was so cold.”
“Cold! it ain't cold!”
And Charley shivered and drew near the embers.
The girl made no reply to these querulous words, beyond
saying soothingly, “It will be warm and good when the
sun gets well up, Charley;” and then she betook herself
busily to making some tea, in an old battered can. As
she bent down, the soft brown hair falling around her
pure countenance, was such as any duchess might have
envied; if, indeed, duchesses are not quite above and independent
of nature, in the matter of hair or other personal
decorations. The child had about her a nameless sweetness,
and gentleness too, that was very touching; and it
was a sight for a philosopher to see her now, busying herself
about the few details of the poor meal.
She made the embers burn up after a fashion, boiled
the water, and prepared everything for making tea. She
then placed the stool with three legs close to the fire, such
as it was, and with a smile which was beautiful to see,
said—
“Come, Charley, warm yourself now—Uncle Joe will be
in very soon, you know; he must be through by this
time.”
Charley muttered something in a very ill-humored way,
and without apology or hesitation assumed the warm seat
by the fire.
The girl took one of the high old chairs, to which lofty
elevation very little heat could mount from the low fire,
and drawing an old soiled book from her pocket began to
read in silence.
Fifteen or twenty minutes passed in this way, and the
expression in her mild soft eyes, when the door opened
and Uncle Joe came in from his morning round.
2. CHAPTER II.
HOW ELLIE THOUGHT OF HER SHAWL.
Uncle Joe was not an octogenarian, as uncles are
generally supposed to be, at least in story books, but a
man of forty or so, with an amiable expression on his thin
face, and a kindly eye. He was clad in an old rough coat,
carefully mended; wore mittens of brown yarn, and his
forehead was covered with an old slouch hat, which had
evidently seen good service, in sun and storm.
The girl closed her book, restored it to her pocket, and
went forward gladly to take his hat and coat.
“Why how well you look, Uncle Joe,” she said softly,
“your face is as bright as it can be.”
He shook his head with a sad smile, and said—
“No, Ellie, I'm not well; I'm took sudden with fever;
I am.”
“Oh, Uncle Joe!”
“There now, Ellie! don't you be flushin' up like fever
too, and gittin' to cryin'. I ain't much sick.”
And the brown rough hand went to Joe's forehead as
he sat down.
“Is it fever?” said Ellie, with a tremor in her voice.
“Oh! Uncle Joe! let me see.”
And she felt first his pulse, and then his brow. The
brow was hot, the pulse galloping Her eyes filled with
tears.
“Yes, they ain't no doubt about it,” said Joe Lacklitter,
“I'm done up—I don't jest know what it is, but I'm done
up. Don't you be a-looking so struck there Charley, but
you eat your breakfast. Get the tea, Ellie, and then go
round to Dr. Jots—'bleeged to have him.”
Ellie fixed every thing with hurried hands, wiping away
many a starting tear as she did so. Then she threw on
her shawl and hastened to the office of Dr. Jots, who
lived in the next street. The doctor, who was not a
favorable specimen of the profession, promised to call
round in the course of the morning, though with many
mutterings, having relation to the ultimate probability of
being repaid for his trouble; and with this scant encouragement,
the child was obliged to be satisfied.
Ellie returned home in haste, scarcely conscious of the
bitter cold, and the driving wind. She found her uncle
in bed, and his flushed face made it very evident that
during her absence the malady had made further progress.
The child nearly burst into tears, so changed was the
thin face, and the calm eyes; but quickly reflecting that
this would be very wrong, she assumed a cheerful look,
and applied herself to the task of making the sick man
comfortable. She prepared a bowl of tea, toasted a slice
of bread, and carefully spreading upon it a small piece of
butter which she took from a plate on the shelf, covered
with brown paper, brought them to the invalid.
“No, Ellie, it's o' no use propin' up the pillar,” said
little gal. I'm a-doin' very well.”
“Oh, Uncle Joe! just try a mouthful—just a sip—it
will do you good.”
“Can't,” said Joe, trying to look well, “I'm took down
too sudden. I knowed it was comin'! The mornin's was
so bad, and my beat was so far, and I ain't been well sence
I was sick last summer.”
Ellie turned away to wipe two large tears from her
eyes, and then sat down by the invalid's bedside.
Dr. Jots came in an hour; felt the sick man's pulse;
looked at his tongue, and cheerfully assured him that he
was “in for a rather long spell.” He then carelessly
scribbled something on a piece of paper, told the sick man
to “get that” at the apothecary's, and went away.
Joe tried to smile, but it was a woeful sight, for his
head was racked with fever.
“Get that,” he murmured, “but how 'm I? My pay's
a week in advance to me, and 'thout you, Ellie—”
“Oh!” said Ellie, with a sinking heart, but smiling for
all that, “don't be uneasy, Uncle Joe, I'll get it.”
“You're a good girl,” said Joe, turning over, “I dunno
what would come to me 'thout you. I'm glad you've got
a little left. But wrap up good.”
He then turned over, and closing his hot eyes tried to
sleep.
“A little left!” No, Ellie had nothing; she had expended
the whole of her little stock that morning in buying
breakfast, and she had not so much as a cent. What was
Ellie's heart sank.
For a moment she stood irresolute, with her eyes fixed
vacantly on Charley, who sat in the chimney corner crying
and wiping his eyes on his dirty sleeve; then, with a sob,
she sat down and covered her face with her hands. Her
lips moved, but no sound came forth, and the small form
shook. Then she raised her head, and her calm face
proved that she had been obedient, and gone for strength
to the place of strength. Her eyes fell on her shawl.
That shawl was the only article of clothing she possessed
worth bartering—or which any reasonable money-lender
would so much as look at. It would not be so
cold, as the warm sunny morning came on, she said to
herself. The question whether it would also be warm as
the snowy freezing December came on, did not occur to
her.
She easily obtained for the shawl the trifle which she
asked, and which she supposed would suffice; and then
hastening from the house, whose inmate received thus the
sole wrapping of the child, without compunction or so
much as a thought upon the subject, bent her way rapidly
towards the apothecary's.
She had enough to pay for the bottle, and holding it
carefully she took her way back to the hovel.
She found the sick man sleeping heavily, and unrolling
the medicine, carefully read the directions and prepared to
give the draught on his waking.
Charley was not there—probably he had been tempted
to go and warm himself at the cellar opposite, for the fire
colder.
The child looked for a minute at the vacant fire-place,
and almost sobbed. The last stick of wood had been
burned on the night before, and her heart fainted at the
prospect of having no fire for her sick uncle. She went
into her small closet, leaned her head upon the pallet, and
for some minutes remained silent, save that some broken
sobs, growing more and more subdued, indicated that the
child's thoughts were elsewhere—her heart raised to a
Friend who does not forsake us.
When she came out, her face was resigned and calm;
she put on her old bonnet, and taking a broken basket,
went out into the street.
For an hour she wandered about, picking up such
chance splinters of wood, and scattered bits of coal, as
she could find. Spite of the most careful gleaning, some
bits of coal would remain in the interstices of the stones
after the loads were stowed away, and these were assiduously
collected by the child and deposited in her basket,
the broken bottom of which she supplied by the paper in
which the medicine had been wrapped.
At the end of an hour she had collected quite an armful
of broken pieces of wood, and her basket was nearly
full of the coal “trash;” and she hastened quickly back,
driven onward by the chill, biting wind, which attacked
her almost bare shoulders with cruel animosity, but more
than all by the thought that her uncle was alone.
It was a piteous sight to see the child so thinly clad, and
buffeted by the wind, which cut through her poor clothing
protection, but this was gone now, and the small form
trembled and shook—shivering at every new attack of the
freezing wind. The sun shone brightly, but seemed to be
laughing ironically at the idea of any one's supposing that
his beams had the least warmth in them—and the paving
stones were freezing cold, and numbed the poor child's
feet.
She hastened on, however, and had nearly reached home,
when she saw a crowd of vagabond boys at the corner of
the street, and, in the midst of them, little Charley, who
was observable at once from the great difference in his age
and size. Ellie knew that many of these boys were of bad
character, and stopped to call Charley to go home with her.
3. CHAPTER III.
INTRODUCES WIDE-AWAKE.
At the sound of the child's voice, the eldest boy in the
group turned round and stared at her carelessly. He was
sixteen or seventeen years old, apparently, but might
have been a year younger, for the houseless wanderers of
city streets look old and knowing long before their childhood
has gone by. This boy was clad almost handsomely—
splendidly indeed, compared with his companions—and had
a careless, reckless air, which had evidently procured him
the chiefship among his comrades. In all their occupations,
as newsboys, paper-carriers, errand-runners, and
as the friends of this gentleman preferred calling him—
was easily the chief and leader.
Ellie had seen him often, and they would frequently
exchange salutations, and walk some distance together,
when they met; and thus, as the child came up now and
called to Charley, Wide-Awake turned round, and, in the
technical phrase, “hailed her.”
“I say! my eyes! you've been beggin'!”
“No, indeed, I have not, Sam,” said the child, “but it is
so cold I can't stop. Come on home, Charley, wont you?”
Charley grumbled, and first took up one bare foot, then
the other, undecidedly.
“We aint a-goin' to let him go. He's goin' to be one
of our party,” said one of the boys in the last stage of
dilapidation.
“Oh, no!” said Ellie, stepping back from the speaker
with irrepressible dislike, for he was one of the most
dangerous young thieves in the whole neighbourhood;
“Oh, no! Charley don't want to go with you.”
“I tell you he does!” said the boy, with a swagger;
“and we're goin' now to —.”
“Oh, no! Charley!” cried the child: “do not go with
him. Indeed, indeed, he will make you bad; you are so
little, and—and—”
Ellie turned away to repress a sob. Her heart overburdened
with anxiety and grief for her sick uncle, could
scarcely stand this new trial, and she almost burst into
tears.
“Go it!” cried the tattered boy; “she's goin' to cry,
coffee and brile. Come on!”
Charley stood whimpering and undecided. A mere
little bit of a child, it is scarcely wonderful that he should
have been tempted by the offers of the boy, which were
now all summed up in the shape of hot coffee and a hot
broil.
The boy saw his advantage, and taking Charley by the
arm, made a face at Ellie, and drew him away.
“Oh, no, no, don't go, Charley! don't go!” cried
Ellie, dropping her armful of wood, and putting her arm
round the child; “Oh, no! you must not go.”
“He shall, I tell you! Now you jest take your hand
off o' his shoulder, will you?”
This request was accompanied by a gesture to the
effect that Ellie would immediately repent any interference
if she dared to persevere. This was evidently the meaning
of the young bully. But as the Moor says, “Who
can control his fate?” Just as the threatening arm was
raised, another fist came in contact with the tattered
boy's head, and he found himself immediately engaged in a
combat with Wide-Awake, who until the moment of
attack, had watched this contest with philosophic interest,
leaning against a lamp-post, and picking his teeth.
The battle was not long, and by the time Ellie had
picked up her armful of wood, and taken Charley by the
hand, (he looked very sorry now,) Wide-Awake's victory
was achieved. A last kick sent his adversary into the
gutter, whereupon he was hailed with shouts as more than
ever chief and commander. Wide-Awake received these
assuming his former careless and rakish position against
the lamp-post, said to Charley—
“Now, you young man, go home, and mind your sister,
and don't come around this crowd. You better not. If
I see you with any of 'em, I'll lick you.”
Charley whimpered at this, and took up his feet one
after the other.
“I say,” added Wide-Awake confidentially, as Ellie
turned tearfully toward home; “the old organ grinder
over ther's dead. Did you know it?”
“Oh no! Is he?” said Ellie.
“Yes he is.”
“But Lucia is—”
“You mean she aint got nobody—don't you?”
“Yes.”
“Well she aint, but I'm goin' to try and help her.”
“That's very good in you, Sam—I'll go and see her—
as soon as—when—very soon, I mean, Sam,” said Ellie,
thinking of her sick uncle, and hurrying away. “I'm
very much obliged to you, Sam—good bye.”
And Ellie hastened homeward. Charley was quite submissive
and repentant now, and watched the bed and the fire
alternately. Ellie knelt down and arranged the splinters and
put some bits of coal on them, and blew it until it kindled.
She then rose, and taking an old tumbler and a pewter
spoon from the shelf, set it by the medicine in order to
administer the draught as soon as the sick man awaked.
The child did all this with strange energy and calmness
a timid child, now almost a woman—poor little
woman of eleven!—she almost wondered at herself.
Sitting by the small fire she leaned her head upon her
hand, and pondered long and deeply, until her very brain
ached, indeed, with the new weight of cares. Everything
now was to be done by herself—there was nothing “in
the house”—and her uncle was sick. Food, fuel, medicine—all
these were necessary to his existence. Where
were they to come from? Ellie's lip trembled as she
thought of it, and she restrained with difficulty the tears
which filled her eyes.
It was the habit of this child, however, to make an
actual practical use of that faith which so many of us keep
for seasons of discourse and devotion, and quietly repudiate
as an element which should enter into everyday life—
doing away with our fears, and yet not making us remiss
in resolute endeavor. Ellie's faith was warm and living,
and if in the presence of these terrifying obstacles her
weak heart trembled, he did not doubt, or give way to
despondency.
About noon Joe Lacklitter woke and turned in his old
bed. Ellie was at his side with a look of love and pity
and tenderness which was beautiful to see.
The fever had, if anything, gained upon him, and his
cheeks were burning.
The child brought the medicine, and administered it as
the label directed; then beat up his pillow, and brought
him a hot cup of tea and the toast.
“I might have made you a little soup, dear Uncle Joe,”
but I thought it would be too strong, you know.”
“Yes, yes, I couldn't 'a' teched it—I couldn't,” said
Joe, with a sickly smile; “you're a good girl,—a good
girl. I think I might try a little tea.”
Ellie hastened to place the old pillow behind his back,
and held the cup to his lips. He drank, and after eating
a mouthful of the toast, lay down again. The child carefully
covered him, and assuming a cheerful smile, said he
would soon be better. Joe smiled himself, and muttering
again, “a good girl! a good girl!” sank into uneasy
slumber.
4. CHAPTER IV.
ELLIE AND HER NEEDLE.
So the day passed,—the “long, long weary day,” as
says the song,—and Ellie saw night draw on, cold and
stormy, and threatening snow.
The child had been reflecting all the afternoon upon her
situation, and long before dark had betaken herself to her
needle. This was to save candle light, and besides she
could think very well while she was working, and had the
further satisfaction of knowing that she was getting on
with her work. When night came she assisted Charley
to undress, and saw that he was comfortably wrapped from
the cold in the poor, tattered covering; after which she
returned to work again.
The sick man was still slumbering heavily, and whenever
he moved, the child cast anxious glances towards the
bed. She sewed on until her eyes ached in the twilight,
and then carefully adjusting it so that the light would not
fall in the sleeper's eyes, she lit a piece of candle in an old
battered candlestick, and recommenced her work, replenishing
the fire from time to time carefully, with an eye to
the small remaining stock of wood and coal.
Ellie was working at a lace collar of the richest description.
She had taken it from the lower drawer of an old
pine affair in her closet, the key of which she took with
others from her pocket, and it was evident that it had
already cost much labor. A word in explanation here as
to the child's possession of this costly fabric; perhaps this
slight digression may explain other things.
Joe Lacklitter, whose chief business was the distribution
of newspapers to subscribers, had received into his
poor rooms, or rather room, the two children of his
brother, who had died some two years before. Their
mother had been a woman much above her sphere when
she died, and possessed more than one accomplishment
unusual in the occupants of hovels. She had taught Ellie,
at the age of six or seven, to read fluently, and before she
was nine had made of the child quite an accomplished
needle-woman. Mrs. Lacklitter had entirely supported
herself, her children, and an idle and drunken husband, by
means of her needle: and the elegance with which she
executed the delicate work so much prized by ladies for
collars, had supplied her with constant occupation.
Ellie had often taken these articles to good Mrs. Brown,
poor needle-women, and brought back to her mother the
money for them. Then one day she timidly asked Mrs.
Brown if she had no work for her,—and Mrs. Brown
smiling and asking if she meant in the meal-bag line,
Ellie had replied, “no, such as mother did, but not so
fine.” Mrs. Brown was very merry at this, but her merriment
gave way to surprise when Ellie sat down and worked
some before her eyes: and the end of all this was that at
nine years old the child was trusted with this delicate
work, and thus assisted her mother.
Her father died, in a drunken debauch it was said; but
this was spared the child. She was not long afterwards
called to the bedside of her dying mother. Her mother
had gazed at her wistfully, said she had something private
to tell her, sent every one out of the room, but had apparently
no courage to speak. She had only blessed her
children and committed them into the hands of God.
Ellie, with little Charley on her lap, was sobbing as if her
heart would break, when Joe Lacklitter came and took
her up and kissed her, and said he “had his part to do
and he was going to do it—he was;” the result of which
declaration was, that the orphan children were taken to
his poor dwelling; and he had never repented it. There
was a soft and tender gentleness about Ellie which often
caused him to look at her with astonishment; but this was
quite swallowed up in his affection for her. Charley, too,
was a good little child, and, though somewhat fretful, had
never caused him any trouble.
They had thus lived for two years—Joe Lacklitter
good Mrs. Brown, who often told her that her work was
much admired, and trusted her without hesitation with the
costliest fabrics. There is a magnetism in honesty, and
Mrs. Brown knew that her things were sacred in the eyes
of the poor child. Thus they had gone on up to the
present, and it was no common contingency which Ellie
was called to meet. Her needle must support the household,
child as she was—God help her!—and she must not
despair.
So she sat working at the rich collar for hours while
still the slumberer breathed heavily and turned on his
couch.
Whenever he turned, as we have said, Ellie would lay
down her work, rise quickly, and, poised upon one foot,
listen if the sleeper had awaked and wanted anything.
As she stood thus, with her soft brown hair falling
around her fair pure face, she might have realized one of
the dreams of Raphael, though canvass never could
have held the mingled tenderness and purity of the child.
She would then sit down, and bending over the small
fire, ply her needle—shrinking a little it may be when the
blast rushed in, and shivering in her thin poor dress;
but still she worked on, and did not stop, but true to her
high heart, heeded not all the passing hours clashed from
the sombre bells on the wild wandering night. Surely
the poor dim candle did not prevent one eye from seeing,
or the wild wind drown the low soft voice which rose
from the child's lips as she knelt and prayed.
Before midnight she had finished the collar, and
and lay down on her poor pallet, watchful for the waking
of the sick man. But he slumbered heavily, and yielding
gradually to sleep, the child slumbered too—her cheek
upon her arm—worn out with toil and grief.
5. CHAPTER V.
ELLIE PICKS UP A GLOVE.
Ellie was up betimes next morning, and at her uncle's
bedside.
He had slumbered heavily throughout the night, and
the malady seemed in that time to have gathered new
strength. His cheek was burning, and his eye had that
fitful wandering expression which denotes the mastery of
disease over the mental as well as the physical part of
man's system. Ellie felt more than ever that sinking of
the heart which is worse than a thousand tears; and it
was a hard struggle to trust implicitly in that Being to
whom she had just offered her prayer on her bended
knees.
She felt more than ever her almost powerless condition,
and with one hand upon the sick man's pillow, she leaned
over him and cried silently for some moments. He
opened his eyes at last, and with a sort of dim consciousness
that it was the real Ellie, and not the angel of his
dreams, tried to smile; but it was a sickly attempt, and
he soon sank back with a low sigh of pain.
Ellie carefully arranged the cover, and suppressing her
tears, betook herself to kindling the two or three bits of
wood which she had reserved. She then waked and
assisted Charley in dressing, and made some tea for him.
The first thing to be done was to get the money for
the collar, as more medicine would be wanted, and to ask
the doctor to come again; this the child determined to
do at once. She instructed Charley, who was now quite
subdued, and anxious to remain at home, and if her uncle
stirred to get anything he wanted—tea or water, or anything—and
then she put on her old bonnet, wrapped up
the collar, and set forth.
Dr. Jots gave a surly assent to her request that he
would call at once, as her uncle was much worse; and
then she set forward again, through the bitter sunrise, on
her way.
Suddenly, in passing the office of the newspaper which
her uncle was accustomed to serve to subscribers, she
remembered that they ought to know of his sickness; and
accordingly she went in and said that he was ill. The
information was received by the greasy looking clerk with
as many grumblings as had fallen to her lot in the case
of Dr. Jots. It had occurred to Ellie to ask an advance
upon her uncle's weekly pay, but the rude manner of the
clerk, added to the fact, which she now remembered, that
her uncle had stated his indebtedness for a week in
advance, paralyzed the child's tongue, and she could not
find the words to prefer her request.
She went out endeavoring to hide her tears, and again
set forward through the chill sunrise on her way.
She arrived at the “Seamstress' Union,” and almost
burst into tears at the disappointment which met her. It
was closed: and she suddenly remembered that this was
one of the two days in the week when Mrs. Brown closed
her shop, and went out to carry work to her “hands,”
and give them instructions.
It was a bitter disappointment, and the child sat down
on the stone before the door and cried. Early wayfarers
passed her and looked curiously at her, and went on in
silence;—or a paper carrier uttered a good natured “hallo,
young 'un,” and then hurried on; or baker boys in fast-driving
carts, asked her the “time o' day for breakfast;”—
still the child's tears flowed, and she seemed oblivious of
all around her, gazing at the cruel door which had shut
out with its iron clasp her only hope.
She sat thus on the cold stone for a long time, trying to
think what she should do. Mrs. Brown would not return
until evening—but evening would find them destitute, and
she could not leave her uncle again. What could she
do—oh! what could she do!
Suddenly her eye fell upon the package containing the
collar, and she remembered that it was for a lady whom
she had often done such things for. She would go to her,
and tell her why she came, and get the money, and afterwards
explain to good Mrs. Brown, who could not surely
blame her. Ellie rose at once, and wrapping her cold
hands in her apron, took her way towards the residence of
Miss Incledon, who lived at the house of her aunt.
She knocked timidly, and told the well-fed servant, who
his hand, that she wanted to see Miss Silvia.
Very good, the man said, he knew she couldn't, being
as Miss Silvia wasn't up yet—but he 'd send. Telegraphing
accordingly to a chambermaid, who was going up
stairs, he stated the child's request, and then returned to
his work singing, as contented and well-fed domestics will.
The maid returned in ten minutes with a message from
her mistress that the child was to come in. She would be
down soon “to practice,” and would see her.
Ellie went into the parlor, where a good blazing fire
had just been kindled, and sat down timidly upon a cricket,
holding her hands to the blaze. They were bitter cold,
and she had not been near so fine a fire for a long time.
Having warmed herself, she looked around and scanned
the apartments of the room with forlorn curiosity.
It was a richly furnished apartment, with silk damask
curtains, a Brussels carpet, and massive rosewood furniture.
Everything indicated comfort, and Ellie could not
forbear comparing it with the poor room she had just left,
where her uncle lay, burnt up with fever, and without the
necessaries of life. But this thought did not make her
envious, and she banished it at once, folding her hands
and making up her mind to wait patiently.
Chancing to look around after a few moments, Ellie's
eyes lit upon a yellow kid glove, which lay upon the floor
by the sofa, within a foot or two of her; and she reached
over and picked it up. Just within the wrist-band of the
glove, which was evidently a man's, was visible in the
as if in careless sport—the name “A. Fantish.”
Ellie was still looking absently at the glove, when a
light step behind her attracted her attention, and turning
round she saw the young lady she had come to see. Miss
Incledon was about twenty-two, had magnificent dark hair
and eyes, and wore a handsome morning dress, which set
off her superb figure to great advantage. Her face was
beautiful and animated, but a latent excitability in the
dark eyes seemed to indicate a quick temper, not entirely
under its mistress's control.
“Oh! it is you, child, is it?—the little sewing girl. I
have not forgotten you,” said Miss Incledon, “do you
wish to—”
Suddenly seeing the glove in the child's hands, she
stopped and colored.
“What—where—did you get that?” she said taking it.
“I picked it up from the floor, ma'am,” said Ellie, who
had risen and was standing respectfully back from the fire.
“From the floor!—oh, yes—he must have dropped it.
That is—no matter.”
And Miss Incledon, with a careless air, thrust the glove
into her reticule.
“Did you want to see me?” she said, going to the piano,
opening it, and running her hand over the keys.
“Yes ma'am, I brought your collar.”
“My collar?”
“I was working it for Mrs. Brown, you know, ma'am.”
“Oh, yes—my thread lace—let me see.”
Ellie unrolled and handed it to the young lady.
“Very pretty.”
Ellie smiled with the gentle ingenuous air of a child
who is praised. The young lady looked at it for some
moments, placed it around her white throat, and then
laying it down on the piano, said as she ran her hand
over the keys,
“Sit down, and warm yourself.”
Ellie blushed and hesitated.
“If you please, ma'am,” she faltered, with a threatened
tear; “my uncle is sick, and we have no money—and—”
“You want me to pay for this? Oh, certainly! I
might have known you came for—”
As she spoke, the door opened, and the servant putting
his head in, announced respectfully, “Mr. Ralph, ma'am.”
A quick color came to the young lady's face, and the
hand which she had moved toward her pocket, stopped.
Before she could speak farther, the door opened wide,
and a gentleman came in.
6. CHAPTER VI.
HOW ELLIE WAS FORCED TO HEAR A VERY SINGULAR
CONVERSATION.
He was a man of about twenty-five, of tall stature and
fine appearance—though his face wore an expression of
gravity amounting almost to melancholy. He was clad
handsomely but plainly, and seemed to be familiar with
the apartment which he entered.
“Good morning, Silvia,” he said, gravely. “You will
excuse this early call, but I had something to say to you
in confidence, and I knew you would be here, and alone.”
The young lady had already lost her careless air, and
met the new comer with ill-disguised distaste, with which
was mingled no little disquiet.
“I am not alone this morning, however,” she now said,
pointing to Ellie.
“Ah!” said the gentleman, with a kindly smile toward
the child, whose gentle expression seemed at once to
attract his attention, “you have an early visitor.”
The young lady played with the ribbon of her sash, and
was silent.
“I wished to talk with you this morning, Silvia,” continued
the gentleman; “will you permit me?”
“Certainly,” was the reply, but in a tone so cold, that
it was obvious in what mood the conversation would proceed.
Indeed Miss Incledon seemed to be bracing her
nerves for a struggle, and to know the strength of her
adversary.
The gentleman pointed to Ellie.
“We can speak alone, can we not?” he said.
“That child is nobody,” she replied.
“Have you business with her?”
“Yes, some collars I wish made.”
The gentleman sat down.
“I will wait,” he said.
Miss Incledon flirted the ribbon she was playing
with.
“I don't know when I shall get through,” she said.
“But I am pressed for time.”
“I am sorry.”
“And have something I wish to say.”
“I will hear it,” she said, bracing her nerves and
coloring.
The gentleman placed his hat upon the sofa, and drawing
his chair near the young lady said, as Ellie fearfully
retreated toward the fire:
“You probably know, Silvia, the object of this visit,
for it is not the first time I have been driven to the
miserable task of fulfilling what I promised my uncle,
your father. Hitherto we have spoken on this disagreeable
subject alone. You compel me to do what is
repugnant to me—speak before another person, though
that person is a child. I cannot help it.”
Another flirt of the ribbon, but no reply.
“I was at the ball last night, Silvia,” continued the
gentleman.
“Were you, sir!”
“Yes: and I saw Mr. Fantish there.”
A gush of crimson blood covered the young lady's
face, and her eyes flashed.
“This was the subject then—”
“Which I wished to speak with you about? Yes,”
said her companion, curbing a fire in his own eye which
seemed to reply to that in her own.
“The subject is distasteful, and I have told you so,
sir,” said the young lady almost rudely, and for the first
time addressing the gentleman formally as “sir.”
“You have told me so—that is true,” he said, repressing
by the lady's tone; “but you have not shown me it is
not my duty as an honorable gentleman, and as your
relation, to return to the subject.”
“I am not aware that because you are my cousin, you
have the right to annoy me.”
“I do not wish to annoy you.”
“But I am annoyed, sir—greatly annoyed.”
“I regret it: but you cannot have forgotten the ground
upon which I base my right to speak upon this subject.
I certainly have mentioned it in former interviews.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the young lady, giving way to her
irritation: “I have heard it until I am sick of it.”
“Then you do not forget that I promised your father
to perform as well as I was able a brother's part while
you were here in the city without other male relatives?”
“No, sir!”
“That he requested me to do so in the first place himself?”
“No sir! I have not forgotten it. You made but one
slight mistake.”
“A mistake?”
“Yes, sir. You forgot your `brother's part,' and
assumed that of `lover.”'
The bitterly poisoned arrow struck the mark at which
it was directed, and a deep flush covered the brow of the
gentleman, and his eyes flashed. It was some moments
before he could master his feelings, but when he spoke the
mastery was complete.
“It is true, Silvia,” he said, gravely, “that I was led
else of my acquaintance, and I do not know that even the
unkind speech you have just uttered is not true. But
surely I was therein guilty of no breach of trust in what
I had promised your father. I do not think that this
requires any argument, and I only regret that your evident
irritation should have led you to utter a taunt, which is
also an injustice. If I experienced such feelings as you
charge me with—and I can scarcely deny it—there was
surely nothing improper in them. You soon gave me to
understand that your affections were engaged—that was
frank and honest—and I succeeded in suppressing what
was a very wayward and foolish feeling in my own bosom.
I am true enough gentleman, I think, and strong enough
in will, to bend my feelings to my sense of right; and I
most honestly assure you that I did not conceive the idea
of struggling with the unknown person whom you had
spoken of.”
“And since, sir,” she said, unmoved by the clear, fine
voice and noble look, “since then!—what have you done
since?”
“I certainly have not endeavored to make a place in
your heart for myself by turning out a rival, as you may
suppose him.”
“I know nothing of your intentions, sir,” replied the
young lady, whose flashing eyes betrayed a temper completely
aroused.
“You will pardon me for saying that I do, however,”
he replied, “and what I have said before—what I now
wish to say—is strictly in pursuance of my trust.”
“Wish to say! Well, sir, speak on,” she said, with cold
dignity but evident disquiet.
“I stated that I was at the ball last night.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Fantish was there.”
“Yes, sir.”
Her eyes flashed whenever that name was uttered.
“My wish,” continued the gentleman, “is to tell you as
accurately as possible, what occurred in a corner of the
room—in a very few words.”
“Well, sir, said the lady, with a nervous shudder.
“Mr. Fantish was standing in the midst of a party of
young men,” her companion continued, calmly, “with
whom, I believe, he is very popular. The reputation of a
“fast man” is very taking with a certain class of persons,
and Mr. Fantish is said to be of that description. I was
standing within a few feet of him, and I heard one of his
friends ask him why he was not waltzing. `Because I am
sick of embracing,' he replied. `I have no idea of being
smothered.' `Do you mean waltzing?' asked Mr. Fantish's
friend. `Yes, I mean waltzing,' he replied, `but I
have been through something even stronger than that.
There 's a little girl over yonder who is desperately in love
with me—poor thing!—and, if I would only let her, she
would smother me'—”
“It is not true!—he did not say it!” Miss Incledon
broke out.
“Exactly those words,” replied the gentleman, as pale
as death, but speaking quite calmly, “and he added that
Have you seen it, Silvia?”
It was visible through the net-work of the reticule.
She covered her face with her hands, and cried with
anger and agitation.
“Is my word sufficient for you?” he said, “but I see
you do not doubt me. If you had seen me when I left
the ball, you would have believed me.”
She made no reply.
“Is it necessary for me to say again, Silvia,” he added,
“that a man who thus bandies your affection, if not your
name, from mouth to mouth—who throws only this thin
veil over a base and dishonorable charge—who, despising
all women, and deriding their purity, cannot even spare
the pure young girl who has given him her affection—I
say, is it necessary for me to add, that this man is unworthy
of your regard, that you are running into an enormous
danger by receiving him, and that you cannot too soon
dissolve all connection with him?”
The young lady made no reply, but overwhelmed with
a thousand conflicting emotions, was completely silent.
Whether she was finding excuses for the offender, or
embittering her heart slowly against him, could not be
discovered from her face. She certainly, however, did
not doubt the relation—that was evident.
“My last word, Silvia,” said the gentleman, rising, “is
beware! You do not know the falseness of this man—
you cannot know to what depths of vice his passions have
dragged an originally good nature—for I knew him. As
your relative, as the representative of your good father,
—I beseech you to be cautious. I do not suggest your
course; you are old enough to follow your own views.
For the last time, take care of this man, or you will suffer
lifelong remorse.”
Having uttered these words with the same steadfast
calmness, the gentleman bowed and went out. The young
lady remained for a moment overcome by her feelings;
then seeing Ellie, she thrust a piece of money into her
hand which was more than the value of her work, pointed
to the door, and again covered her face.
Ellie, full of astonishment and agitation, obeyed, and
was again in the street.
7. CHAPTER VII.
HINTS AT THE SKELETON IN CAPTAIN SCHMINKY'S
HOUSE.
With the closing door vanished all that world of rich
furniture, and warmth and comfort, for the child. She
was again in the chill bleak street—one of the poor—
and face to face with poverty and hunger.
Hunger! How many are ignorant of the meaning of
the word!—how many are, alas! too well acquainted
with it! Hunger! the cry of the mean and ignoble
body—the material organization—the growl of the
sleeping animal ready to tear its Slave-Lord, the soul!
Hunger! The hand to hand struggle with the tendency
a step only remains between life and the dark beyond,
which draws ever nearer—the thought that others are
revelling in plenty, while you are failing for want of the
crumbs which even the dogs may gather! This is what
it is to be poor and in want—this is what the sick ages
stagger under, drawing ever near to the day when the
awful question shall be asked, “Lord, when saw we
thee an hungered, or athrist, or a stranger, or naked, or
sick, or in prison, and did not minister unto thee?”—and
when that terrible reply shall be returned, “Verily I say
unto you, inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of
these, ye did it not to me!”
Ellie returned thus to her struggle, and retracing her
way as quickly as her faintness would permit—for she
had tasted nothing for nearly twenty-four hours—reached
home.
Charley had had the good fortune to procure some fuel
from an old negro woman, who lived in the cellar opposite
—Aunt Phillis had more than once befriended Ellie—and
so the fire had not entirely died out. The doctor had
called for a moment, and written another prescription
in her absence; and this the child handed to his sister.
Her first thought, however, was for her uncle; and so,
assuming a cheerful and hopeful expression, which hid a
weary and anxious heart, Ellie went to his bedside.
“How do you feel now, uncle?” she asked; “I went
away before you were quite waked up.”
“Poorly, poorly,” said Joe in a faint voice; “the
fever's got me regular, daughter.”
“Oh, do not think it is very bad,” said Ellie, earnestly;
“you'll soon be well, and we shall get on very well.”
“That troubles me more than all, an' makes my head
hotter 'n the fever,” murmured Joe.
“Oh, don't be troubled, dear uncle. I went this morning
and got the pay for my collar—see how much—and
we're quite rich.”
He looked at the tender gentle face with great affection,
and murmuring “a good girl,” fell back faintly.
“Have you had some tea, uncle?” she asked cheerily.
“I'll make you some hot in a minute.
“Yes, I had some.”
“Well then, I'll go out and get something to make
you some nice soup, and call and get the medicine. I
called at the paper office, and told them you were sick,
and it is all right.”
“Good Ellie.”
“Oh, no, I 'm not good, and it is very little to do for
you—I mean anything would be—after all your love and
kindness to me and Charley.”
Ellie accompanied these soft words with a look which
made the poor sick man murmur a blessing, and then
hastened to get his draught. Having duly administered
it, she put on her bonnet again, and hurried off to get the
medicine.
This exhausted one-half, at least, of her store—but that
was nothing. She came back and placed it on the table,
and taking her basket repaired to market—poor little
housekeeper!—to get the material for a light soup. This
she soon accomplished, and turned again towards home.
She had just passed the famous sign of “Schminky,
Grocer,” when she recollected Uncle Joe's fondness for
pepper—black pepper—in his soup, and also that she had
not a spoonful of salt in the house. She therefore
turned back and went into the store.
The portly proprietor was visible behind the counter,
resplendent in his fine uniform of Captain of the “Yager”
company of German volunteers; and, indeed, so well
known was this office, that we have almost committed a
solecism in (American) good manners by speaking of him
in any other way than as Captain Schminky—which we
shall do in future. Captain Schminky, then, was behind
the counter tying up a pound of candles, and he delivered
them to his customer as Ellie entered.
“Well now, young one, vat is it?” asked Captain
Schminky, in a strong fatherland accent.
“I want a little pepper and salt, if you please, sir,”
said Ellie, “a very little, as little as you can sell, if you
please. Uncle Joe is sick, and—”
“Zalt—you want zalt, ch?” said Captain Schminky,
“you want pepper, eh?”
“A little if you please, sir.”
“For your uncle?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He 's zick?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Goot.”
And having uttered this somewhat ambiguous monosyllable,
Captain Schminky with one hand seized the salt,
with the other the pepper, and emptied a good large pile
would mix, he laid a slice of cheese and some crackers
between them, and bundling them up, rolled the package
to Ellie.
“Oh, sir,” she said “I 'm afraid that is too much. I
can't pay for—”
“Bay!—I don't want noting—ton't pother me.”
And bluff Captain Schminky emerged into the shop,
and turning his back on Ellie, abandoned the store to his
clerk.
Ellie picked up her bundle, and, full of thanks and
gratitude, went out. Captain Schminky was there, reconnoitring
the street—his hand upon his sword.
“I zay,” he said, “you know Zam Peau?”
“Sam? Oh, yes, sir.”
“Ough; you ze 'im when las'?”
“I saw him yesterday.”
“You ze 'im 'bout here to-day?”
“No, sir, not to-day.”
“Ough! tam Zam Peau!”
And having uttered this objurgation, Captain Schminky,
with his hand on his sword hilt, took his way proudly
down the street.
Ellie smiled and went towards home, not thinking of the
chill wind which cut through her thin dress—but full of
the subject of the soup
She soon prepared it, and was delighted to see that the
invalid enjoyed it—he declared, indeed, that he never
could have touched it without the pepper. The faculty
may differ upon the advisability of pepper, but we incline
invalid as he eat, with a satisfaction which gave him a
new appetite; and when he was done, ran and took the
plate, and smoothed his pillow, and saw him turn his face
away looking much better. She and Charley then ate
some of the cheese and crackers.
Charley was slowly coming to the conviction—for Charley
was a good boy at bottom—that he ought to do something
to help his uncle and sister. He now introduced
the subject, forlornly munching his cheese, and talking in a
whisper.
“I say, sister, I kin sell some papers, I think,” he said.
“Papers, Charley?”
“Yes, newspapers.”
Ellie reflected.
“Littler boys 'an me kin,” continued Charley, munching,
“and I 'm goin' to try.”
“How will you get them, Charley—who will tell you
how?”
“I know. I ain't goin' to do like that ugly Jim, that
takes 'em from the doors and sells 'em.”
“Oh, Charley! I hope not! That would be stealing.”
Charley assented to this and continued:
“Sam will show me how;—must I ask him?”
Ellie pondered, and at last replied:
“Yes, Charley, if you think you can do it. Sam is
quite honest, I think, and I know he will not mislead a
child like you. Yes, Charley,” continued the child, “I
think you have smartness enough to do it very well; but
shoes.”
But Charley had his pride thoroughly aroused, and
declared that he didn't care for the cold; and he was
going off to see Sam at once. Ellie buttoned up his coat
and kissed him, and the juvenile newsboy set forth upon
his search.
He returned in an hour with a bright look, and said he
had seen Sam on the wharf, and he had promised to take
him and “interduce” him on the next morning; and full
of his new ambition, Charley became dignified and
affectionate.
So the day drew on and night came, and passed pretty
much as before. Uncle Joe was still hot with fever, but
he seemed more composed, and Ellie poured out her
whole little heart in prayer for him.
Charley disappeared early, and came back two or
three hours afterwards somewhat down-hearted, but still
manful. He had made a few coppers, but evidently
doubted seriously about his new profession. He was to
go on the next morning, however, and meanwhile consoled
himself with counting his coppers—after which he
dutifully deposited them in his sister's lap.
During his absence Ellie had gone out and bargained
with a neighbour for a small portion of wood, and this
exhausted the whole of her money. But they now had
enough for two days at least, and the child began to cast
about her for ways and means again.
She recollected that Miss Incledon had said to the
gentleman with whom she held that singular conversation,
about some collars; and now this occurred to her as an
opportunity to obtain some more work, if Mrs. Brown
should have none to give her.
She accordingly took her bonnet, and cautioning Charley
not to leave her uncle, who was dozing, set forth
toward Miss Incledon's. On the way she stopped and
explained what she had done to good Mrs. Brown, who
fully approved of it, and was sorry she had no more work
at the moment.
So Ellie thanked her for her kind words, and curtseying,
continued her way toward the house of the young
lady.
8. CHAPTER VIII.
A GENTLEMAN OF FASHION AND AN ECCENTRIC.
The child knocked timidly at the door, and it was
some time before she could make herself heard. At last,
however, the portly servant appeared, and with a patronizing
air, demanded her business.
She wished to see Miss Silvia, she said timidly; whereupon
the servant said Miss Silvia had a visitor, but he
would tell her—which was attributable to the fact that
he had standing orders to suit such cases.
“Ask her to sit in the hall a moment,” Ellie heard.
And accordingly the child came in and sat down. At
the end of ten minutes the parlor door opened, and a
He was tall, slender, and graceful—wore the most
fashionable costume—and carried his glossy hat jauntily
in his hand; but Ellie observed that beneath this
smiling and gay exterior, there was an ill-concealed
expression of weariness and recklessness, which made it
anything but pleasant to dwell upon the visitor's countenance.
He was undeniably handsome, it is true, and his light
brown hair was fine and curling; but his complexion was
pale or rather sallow, and under his eyes were those
discolored semicircles which denote a dissipated habit of
living. A close observer would have found at once in
this man all the characteristics of the fast liver—the
frequenter of bar-rooms and gaming-houses—and something
of this was apparent even to the child.
As we have said, the visitor was smiling, and, behind
him, the face of Miss Incledon was as smiling as his
own.
“Oh, bye-the-bye, I quite forgot to thank you for
restoring this,” he said, pointing to his straw-colored kid
glove. “Thanks, charming señora, and adieu!”
With which words the speaker walked out followed by
the eyes of the young lady, who seemed scarcely to be
aware of the presence of Ellie.
“If you please, ma'am,” the child began after a
moment.
“Oh yes! you are here, are you?—they told me a girl,
and I might have known—”
A shadow passed over the dark handsome face as she
scene at which Ellie had been present.
“What do you wish to-day?” she said, indifferently.
“You said, ma'am—I thought you said,” Ellie began
timidly, “you had some collars—”
“To work?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“So I have, and I suppose you wish to do them?”
“If you please, ma'am.”
“You may—I have no objection; indeed your work is
very good, child; but they are not ready to-day. If you
will call next week I will have them for you.”
And full of her own thoughts the careless young lady
disappeared up the staircase.
Ellie turned away sorrowfully, and descended to the
street. It was not until she reached the cold pavement
that she fully realized the important character of her disappointment.
Work was bread—medicine for her uncle—
fuel to ward off freezing. Want of work was hunger and
cold—not for herself and Charley only, but for him too,
her poor, sick uncle, stretched on his bed, and more powerless
far than herself, a little child.
The thought sent a pang through the child's heart, and
unconsciously her head drooped, and she went along crying
silently and thinking of him.
While thus absorbed in her thoughts, and crying bitterly—she
could not help it, though she tried often—Ellie
felt a kind hand upon her shoulder, and looking up, saw
a graceful looking man, with short brown hair, a smiling
intently.
“Well, little girl,” said this gentleman, who appeared
to be about twenty-five or thirty years old, and to have
thought and observed much in that time—“what are you
crying about, pray?”
“Oh, nothing, sir!” said Ellie, shrinking from the very
thought of begging.
“Nothing, indeed! Nothing don't make people cry,”
said the gentleman. “Come, little one, how is it?”
Ellie was touched by the frank kindness of the tone, and
gave him a grateful look through her tears; but she
remained quite obdurate upon the subject of her crying
and her disappointment.
“You are a strange child,” her companion said, “and
so, that is all. If you won't tell me, you won't—but I
know you are not a beggar, though you ought to have
more clothes. Come, now, I'm rich to-day—and eccentric
always—I 'll treat you to a shawl!”
Ellie cried more than ever from gratitude at this kindness,
but shook her head. Poor as they had been they
had never descended to begging, and Ellie could not bear
the idea, for all the cold.
“You are very good, and I am very grateful,” she said,
with a soft look, “and if you will let me say it, sir, God
will bless you for your goodness to a poor child like me.
But I do not want the shawl, sir—I was not crying
for myself.”
And Ellie moved away. Before she knew it she felt
something in her hand, and heard the stranger say:
“There 's all the silver I have—you shall take it, little
one—and my name. If you can read, and I think your
face says you can, you will know where to find me if you
want a friend. Good bye.”
With these words the stranger called to a gentleman on
the opposite side of the street, and crossed over; after
which he and his friend disappeared.
Ellie looked at the money—it was three-quarters of a
dollar—then at the card. Upon it was engraved the name,
“E. Sansoucy,” with the address, which was not far from
Mrs. Brown's. For a moment Ellie hesitated, doubting
whether she should not go and return the money, so great
was her repugnance to accepting charity.
But she thought of her uncle; of the comforts which
the money would buy for him; and her scruples yielded.
“Oh, it is not for myself,” she murmured, “and it will
be needed to-morrow.” And so Ellie's last scruples were
overcome, and she returned homeward, full of gratitude
to God, to whom it was this child's constant habit to
return thanks for everything.
She had not forgotten the kind face, however, and she
carefully placed the card in her pocket.
9. CHAPTER IX.
A BRACE OF WORTHIES.
There is a strange microcosm around us as we saunter
or press on, day after day, which few even pause to think
of;—the streets of the city. Singular and notable contrasts!
ever being presented, and which are dulled by
use and repetition, until nothing attracts the attention!
Yet surely the curious observer of the traits of human
life finds much to strike him in this common highway,
where the young and the old, the rich and the poor, the
happy and the miserable, jostle each other in the great
race of life—common in nothing but in this, that all are
hastening, consciously or unconsciously, to a fixed and
certain goal, where there is no respect of persons.
Strange world of streets, and full of mysteries and concealments
close enough to puzzle any Diogenes! It is
true that some of these aspects are obvious, as the contrast
is striking. The man who jogs your elbow carries
under his arm a little coffin, which will soon receive all
that remains of some dear child, and, covered with sweet
flowers, descend into that holy earth where Christ laid
down. And as the emblem of death passes on, you find
yourself bespattered by the gay and merry horses which
whirl onward some bright wedding party, decked out
with white favors, going to a merry bridal festival.
These contrasts are most obvious—but others are less
marked.
You do not know that the courteous gentleman who
with your shoulder, carries a forged check safe in his
pocket-book:—you do not know that the smooth wayfarer
has crime and assassination in his heart:—you do
not perceive the weary frown on the brow of Dives as he
rolls by in his splendid coach, or that the representative
of Lazarus on the curb-stone, who begs for a penny, has
a little fortune at home which greatly overweighs your
own. So they pass on—those strange actors on the
smiling streets—the merry and miserable, the pure and
depraved, the old and young, and great and small, and
sick and healthy—all common in this one thing only,
that they are but one great variegated procession to a
fearful ceremony in the distance.
Thus it happened that the pure child whose struggles
with adverse things we are trying to depict, passed close
to two men without knowing it—two men as different in
character from herself as possible.
One of these men was the gay Mr. Fantish whom she
had met some time before at Miss Incledon's; the other
was his father.
Mr. Fantish, senior, was a disagreeable-looking man,
of tall stature, coarse features, and rough frowning manner.
He was richly dressed, but scarcely looked the
gentleman. It requires a long time to make a gentleman,
and it is necessary to begin at the cradle. It was obvious
that this beginning had been deferred in the case of Mr.
Fantish, senior; and his aspirations, if he had any in that
particular direction, had turned out a failure.
As Ellie passed them, they had just met, and Mr.
Fantish, senior, was saying,
“Why have you not been to see me, Ashell?”
“Oh, I've been taken up with a thousand botherations,”
replied Mr. Ashell Fantish, twirling his cane.
“With a run on the cards, eh?” asked his father,
laughing.
“No,” was the reply; “I'm tired of cards. I really
begin to think that I have no luck, and am sick of
them.”
“I am glad of it—you will find the truth of my advice
at last. If you continue to play as recklessly as you did,
you will quite run through with the country property left
you by your mother.”
“And have to fall back on my respected parent, eh?”
said Mr. Ashell Fantish, with careless jocularity; “thank
you, I have no idea of turning out a prodigal son. I am
afraid the fatted calf would be wanting on my return.”
The tone of these words seemed to annoy the worthy
Fantish, senior, who evidently admired and attached no
slight pride to his handsome and fashionable son. We
are bound to say in explanation of this apparently anomalous
fact, that this was probably the sole weakness of the
worthy, who was not tender in his affections; but this
weakness he had.
Thus when the young gentleman hinted that his reception
with his father, were he penniless, would be anything
but enthusiastic, the elder gentleman's countenance
assumed an expression of annoyance, as we have
said, and he replied:
“You know very well that I am not a bad father, and
this is not your real belief. I only advise you to take
care, because it is for your own good. There is a double
objection to cards: they cause a man to throw away
money, and they destroy his health with late suppers and
brandy.”
“Very true,” said his companion, carelessly.
“You have given them up?”
“Yes.”
“I am glad of it.”
“And I—I am indifferent about it.”
“You are getting to be terribly weary-looking, Ashell,”
said Mr. Fantish, senior, easting an admiring glance at
his handsome son.
“I look as I feel,” he replied.
“Why are you so?”
“Nothing interests me.”
“Nothing?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
A silence followed these words, and they walked on.
“Try some occupation,” said the senior at last; “this
is not rational.”
“What? Do you mean living as I do, in bachelor
freedom?”
“Yes, if you choose.”
“Hum!”
“Why not get married?”
“Good! there you are at last, my respected parent—
there it is out. You would like me to make a wealthy
match.”
“I would.”
“To sell myself for money!” added the young man in
a bantering tone.
“Men do it every day.”
“I don't: and there is time enough to change my
opinion, and my modes of action, when I am penniless.”
“You will not be penniless—for you will have my fortune—that
is to say, if you remain a good son,” added the
old man, with an expression of constraint and uneasiness
which was very apparent.
“A good son! Why, am I not?”
“Yes, I don't deny it—and I don't deny, either, that I
am proud of you—though I 'm free to say that I don't
think you have too much affection for me.”
“I trust,” said the young man, in a tone of banter,
“that we are not going to get on the affecting tack. It is
too much for my nerves, and I would rather talk business,
disagreeable as it is.”
The old man seemed, for some reason, to suspect satire
in these words, and said, with some show of irritation:
“Well, suppose my business is disagreeable. I suppose
I am my own master.”
“Yes, sir.”
“This miserable cant, Ashell, of affected puritans! I
know what you allude to: you mean that I am a hard
landlord.”
“No, sir—I was not thinking of anything of the sort.”
“Well, I am, sir, if you do choose to think of it, and
I have some rascally tenants who will be made to pack
immediately, and with very little to take with them.”
With which words Mr. Fantish took a memorandum
from his waistcoat pocket, and read it with ill-concealed
satisfaction.
His son glanced at it carelessly, and said as carelessly:
“What ridiculous names—Slink, Lacklitter and Drachenbilt—that
last must be the scion of some great German
family. Well, all that is very interesting, sir, but business
has few charms for me.”
“I know it—you are a butterfly of fashion, while I
work. I do not complain. I suppose,” added the old
man, “you get it from your mother's family.”
“What, sir?” said the young man, turning round.
“Your folly and thoughtlessness, Ashell,” said his
father.
The young man's face colored, and it presented a strange
appearance, for such a decoration seldom appeared upon it.
“My mother was never guilty of folly, sir,” he said
coldly.
“Go on! go on!” said the elder, stung by his son's
tone, “add that her only folly was marrying me!”
“No, sir! I have no desire to exchange taunts with my
father. I am not a model young man, sir, but I know
what my self-respect requires.”
“Your self-respect! You put nothing on the ground
of affection for me.”
“I say nothing, sir—I complain of nothing.”
“No, you do not; but I see the devil in your eye,
which means that I did not treat your mother well.”
“I mean nothing, sir.”
“Well, I didn't! there, sir! now scowl at me! I made
she was always thrusting her puritanical ideas between me
and the simplest business operation. If I had followed
her advice I would now be in the gutter, instead of rich.
Deny it, if you can, sir!”
“I do not deny it,” said the young man, who had turned
from red to pale.
“And yet you always took her part against me, and I
believe had a conspiracy between you to put me down—or
change me! You might as well have tried to shake Gibraltar,
sir!” said the old man, wrathfully. “Yes, I
remember well how you went on. If you were talking
with your mother and smiling, you would stop on my
entrance, and a cloud would settle on your faces; if I
made a joke about some business matter, there was no
laughter; if I invited you to come to a meeting of the
Board of Brokers, you couldn't—because, forsooth, you
had to drive your mother out.”
“She was delicate and needed it, and you were too
busy—you said you were!” interposed the young man,
with his hand upon his heart.
“Well, suppose I was! Could I be spending my mornings
with your mother, when my affairs were in a critical
position? That is a pretty argument!”
“I argue nothing, sir.”
“You only despise me.”
“No, sir, I do not.”
“Well, sir!—go on in your course, and do as you fancy.
Some day you will repent your disrespect,—yes, sir! don't
respect being due me—”
“I do not, sir.”
“Do as you please, and follow your own course!—and
take sides, if you choose, with your mother yet!—”
He almost stopped as he uttered these terrible words.
“But don't apply to me, sir, while you have a cent in
the world. Don't come to the father you have despised,
and beg!”
“The passers-by will hear you, sir,” said the young man,
pale and gnawing his under-lip.
“What do I care? The passers by are nothing to me,
and I am rich enough—yes, sir, rich enough—to speak
my mind! You think it's very coarse and vulgar, I suppose,
and that it may make your fine acquaintances stare
—but I don't care! I'm rich enough, sir! And, I say
again, don't you come to me until you are on the parish.
Then I will have you—and, mark my word, sir! I will
yet make you like myself, though you so despise me!
You'll yet be proud to be a clerk in my office, and I'll
make you just what you laugh at, and what your mother
dreaded, with her cant—a close, and hard, and perfect
business man! Good morning, sir.”
And overcome by this expression of his long pent up
rage and jealousy, and a thousand conflicting emotions
toward his son, the old man panted, and struck his cane
into the pavement, and went his way, hastily and sternly.
His son stood for a moment looking after him, with a
face paler than ever. Then he nodded his head, and,
gnawing his lips, uttered a grating and affected laugh.
He was aroused by a voice, loud and hearty, which
said,
“Why Fantish, my boy, what's the matter? You look
decidedly knocked-up.”
“I am,” was the young man's careless reply, “regularly.
Come, and have some brandy with me. I am a
little out of sorts.”
So separated father and son.
10. CHAPTER X.
THE STRENGTH OF A CHILD.
Meanwhile Ellie continued her way, and soon reached
home.
She entered cheerfully, holding the donation of the
eccentric Mr. Sansoucy in her hand, and related all that
had occurred to her uncle.
“He's mighty good,” said Uncle Joe; “but editurs is
mostly good, I think, from my knowledge of 'em. I
reckon they read so much misfortun' in the papers that it
makes 'em soft-hearted. You're a good girl, Ellie, and a
great blessin', and the Lord bless you.”
“Dear uncle, don't make me think that I have done
anything but what is my duty,” said Ellie, earnestly;
“my whole life could not repay your goodness and kindness
to me and Charley. I dearly love to do anything
for you—you know it.”
And Ellie, with a tender smile, smoothed the pillow
herself to making the fire burn. Charley sat by it
reflecting.
“What are you thinking about, Charley?” said the
child, assuming a light tone. “A penny for your
thoughts.”
“I was thinkin' 'bout God,” said Charley.
“What were you thinkin', Charley?”
“I was thinkin' that the bad people had the best time
in the world—and they have,” said Charley, stoutly; “I
know they have.”
“Oh, no, Charley!”
“I know they have,” reiterated the boy; “they have fine
clothes, and plenty to eat, and good fires, and everything
—tell me they aint easiest!”
“Oh, Charley, Charley!” said the child, earnestly, “it
is not right to feel in that way—or look in that way.
Suppose some people are rich and bad—and I know they
are—they are not happiest. I know we are happier than
a great many bad people.”
“I wish I was rich.”
“Oh, recollect what the Bible says about the rich
people—and how hard it is for them to go to heaven.
You ought not to wish for riches, Charley, but be content,
brother, with what we have.”
“What! with cold, and wantin' somethin' to eat, and
not havin' any clothes hardly.”
“The Savior had not where to lay his head, Charley.”
“Oh, I've heard that, and all I mean to say, sister, is
that nobody don't believe in him.”
“Why?”
“Because, I heard you read that about poor people,
and treatin' them well; and we aint treated well.”
“Oh yes, Charley—there are many good people who
give a heap to the poor.”
“They'll git their reward, won't they?” asked
Charley.
“Oh yes.”
“And the others won't git anything o' the sort, will
they?”
“That is not for us to decide, Charley. The Bible
says we must not judge about such things. We have
enough to do to watch ourselves, brother, and we cannot
be too watchful, for we are always committing sin.”
“You ain't.”
“Oh, yes, indeed, indeed, I am!”
And Ellie's face was clouded.
“Well, then, the rich, bad people ain't safe,” said the
boy; “I know that: and I think it is better to be poor,
and like you, 'an rich, 'an like them.”
With which summary of his opinions, Charley was
silent.
“I think Charley's right,” said the faint voice of Uncle
Joe, who had overheard this conversation; “and you're
a blessin', Ellie. The Lord 'll reward you. As for me,
I'm mighty poor and weakly, and bad, and I begin to
think I was laid on my back for my good. I think,
daughter, I'd like to hear that par'ble 'bout the virgins or
something.”
Ellie, with tears of emotion and gratitude in her eyes,
to be found, and, opening it, read the parable.
“I ain't ready,—I ain't,” said Uncle Joe; the Lord
be marciful. But I'll try to be if I'm out agin; and the
thing that made me think, is you, daughter. Now sit
down, and rest, and I'll try and go to sleep. Good
girl!”
And Uncle Joe turned over, and tried to forget his
fever in sleep.
Ellie soon banished the child-emotion of love and
pride excited by her uncle's words, and betook herself to
her duties of housekeeper.
On the following morning Charley again sought the
office of the paper which he had been introduced to,
Ellie having first prepared a good hot breakfast for him;
and the child remained absent all the morning. He
returned in doleful spirits, and reported that he had not
sold a single paper, and that the stones were so cold, that
his feet were 'most frost-bitten.
Ellie made him sit close to the fire, and looking at him,
observed black stains upon his face. These turned out
to be, according to Charley's explanation, the soil
derived from the newspapers—as he had wiped his face
upon them.
“Your face?” said Ellie.
“My eyes, I mean,” said Charley, his pride all gone.
“I couldn't help cryin'—I couldn't.”
“Poor little brother,” said Ellie, tenderly, taking his
head in her lap, and wiping away the stains. “You
shall not go any more.”
And Ellie kissed the child, and smoothed his hair.
“But I oughter,” said Charley; “oh, what an unfort'nate
boy I am.”
“Oh no, Charley, you are only little; and yon can't
make enough to pay for your cold feet. You shan't go
any more.”
And to this Charley was compelled after a-while to
assent.
So the day passed, and the next, and the next; and the
sick man was no better, and Ellie's stock of money was
nearly all spent, for fuel was terribly costly.
The doctor, too, had grown tired of coming, in view of
the slender chances of receiving any fee; and Ellie felt
more than ever that everything rested upon herself. She
saw with anxious fear that only a trifle of her money
remained, and, when that was gone, where should she
procure any more?
Again she determined to go and try to get some work
from Mrs. Brown or Miss Incledon; and this determination
she immediately put in practice.
Mrs. Brown had more “bids” for her work, at the moment,
than she could supply; and Ellie was too proud and
sensitive to beg. She depended upon Miss Incledon.
Alas!
The servant told her rudely that the young lady had
gone to the country for a week, leaving no message of any
kind for anybody, and closed the door in her face.
11. CHAPTER XI.
HOW ELLIE PAWNED THE GIFT OF HER MOTHER.
It had then come to this!—her last hope was thus gone
from her, and she was left alone to struggle against her
bitter want, and, more than that, the want of her poor,
sick uncle.
For a moment the child's strength seemed to fail her—
a mist passed before her eyes, and from that terrible cloud
a shapeless face, convulsed with horrible laughter, seemed
to hiss out—“Your faith is vain and foolish—listen
to me!”
That thought nerved her once more, and she resolutely
set forward, with a murmured prayer for mercy. Still her
heart was obliged to speak, and, with tears in her eyes, she
murmured faintly:
“Oh, I do not feel right! and I cannot think it is
wrong—though I'm afraid it is! I do not feel right.
There is something wrong in society, as they call it, when
poor persons are suffering for bread, and want to work
and can't!—when the money that is thrown away by others
would keep them from hunger, and sickness, and temptation!
I do not envy the rich, and oh, I would not wish
them to give me their money. But oh! they ought to
remember that, while they are happy, the poor are miserable
for want of work to buy their bread!”
And having uttered this despairing cry against the
falseness of society, the child went on in silence—praying
more faith!
By the next morning all her money was gone, and by
the day after all the supplies in the house were exhausted.
There was no fuel—no bread—nothing.
Ellie sat down and looked at her situation, face to face.
She knew that neither Charley nor the sick man could be
of any assistance: indeed, Uncle Joe had been so often
assured by Ellie, in her tones of assumed cheerfulness,
that she could easily supply the wants of the household by
her delicate lace work, that he had ended by believing her,
and yielding everything into her hands. This was, then,
her position. All was for her.
What should she do?
It is nothing for a strong man—full of experience, with
friends, connections, and a thousand expedients—to be
thus thrown in contact with an adverse destiny, and feel
the pressure of misfortune. It is nothing to the athlete,
with his arms full of vigor, his breast rugged with muscle,
his eye clear and steady, to fence, and strike, and wrestle
with the world, as his well-matched enemy. Skill and
strength, and coolness, and experience, are powerful aids,
and not often do these seize and throw the adverse fate.
But for a child—a weak, poor child, without experience,
without strength, without friends or connections who can
aid her—it is another thing! Her arm has no strength,
the breast no vigor—the eye fills with tears instead of
resolution; and misfortune stands before such an one like
a tiger matched against a trembling fawn. Life has many
bitternesses—many savage and remorseless struggles—but
of a child is, of all things in the wide world, the most
piteous!
Yet this was just the situation of the child, whose days
we are trying to give an account of. The sickness and
want of her uncle was worse than her own would have
been—for she was sick at heart as well; that most terrible
of maladies. Hunger stared her in her face, and her faith
trembled and shook.
It did not give way. By one of those great efforts,
which indicate rare strength of nature, Ellie bowed her
heart, and if she cried, prayed too. And so she was
much calmer, and betook herself again to thought.
Suddenly she recollected that there was something
which might go to the money-lender's still; and rising
quickly, she went into her little closet, and taking her
string containing two or three keys from her pocket,
inserted one of them in a drawer of the old battered pine
affair, which was jammed into the corner.
The lock grated, for it had not been opened for a long
time, and the child drew out the drawer, and took from it
a small bundle, containing the gown of a baby and a
little cap.
Her mother had left her the old set of drawers, and this
long-kept gown, which was her own when she was a baby;
and Ellie did not hesitate as to her right to use it. The
cap was a very handsome one of lace, most probably her
mother's work, and the dress was of good material.
Ellie put on her old bonnet and hastened off to the
money-lender's, who lived on the corner, and kept a small
barter of their goods for money.
The man, who was a coarse, low-browed fellow, so far
relaxed as to make a joke upon his wanting baby-clothes;
but attracted by the lace cap, finally agreed to give Ellie
about one-tenth of the value of her package. With this
the child was obliged to be content, though she felt the
bitter injustice. That night the money-lender, who was
in “good standing” in his church, was reading his bible
aloud magisterially to his wife, and he read: “Whoso
shall offend one of these little ones which believe in me, it
were better for him that a millstone were hanged about
his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the
sea.” He read it with an unctuous and rolling voice, as
though to say, “That 's my neighbors, exactly;” after
which he retired with solemn prayer. “Take heed! In
heaven their angels do always behold the face of my
Father.”
So Ellie went back home with another little plank
between her and the bottom. She felt that it came just
in time, for the lowering sky threatened a long and obstinate
storm; and she hastened to expend her little stock of
money to the best advantage. She made some small purchases
at Captain Schminky's; but that gentleman seemed
to be in an adverse humor, and carefully paid himself out
of the coin she offered. Ellie procured a little wood on
her way also, and returned home just as the clouds seemed
about to discharge a torrent of rain.
But they did not. The dark, gloomy sunset went down
with no rain.
Ellie lit her last piece of candle, and kindled a small
but cheerful fire, by the assistance of which she made some
tea and toast for her uncle—not paying any attention to
the wild sobs of the blast without.
The sick man drank some tea, and then lay back with
his old faint smile, and closed his eyes; and Ellie sat
down and murmured some talk to Charley.
After a while Uncle Joe began to breathe heavily, and
Ellie knew he was asleep. She fixed Charley comfortably,
read a little, and finding herself faint with sleep, went to
her little bed. Worn out with emotion and walking, the
child soon fell asleep, and the muttering of the storm
slowly died away.
12. CHAPTER XII.
FACE TO FACE WITH HUNGER.
When Ellie rose on the next morning, she found the
ground covered with a deep layer of snow.
The storm had indeed died away; no rain had fallen;
but in its place had come the chill fall of snow, preceding
the full winter.
As the child looked out, her heart sank more than ever
within her, and clasping her hands, she gazed with a
species of dumb agony upon the white, cold, pitiless snow.
That snow was nothing to others than herself, or those
coat and India-rubber shoes, and warm throat-wrapping,
smiled at it; and, perchance, was not sorry that the price
of coals and wood, and all “produce,” would by its means
go up. The gay youths and maidens looked forth gladly
and saw, in the future, happy sleigh rides, with their
tinkling bells, making such merry music round them as
they flitted on, past laden trees, by streams, and over
bridges, with their much discussed prerogatives of bold
salutes upon the tingling cheek. The children everywhere
looked forth upon the snow—yet in their nightgowns—and
were full of ecstacy at the bright visions of
snow-balling, and a thousand sports, which come in with
the merry, laughing, white and beautiful snow!
Not so did it appear to Ellie; there was nothing merry
in the snow to her—and if any beauty, it resembled that
of the white polar bear, whose velvet fur and graceful
head conceal the coldest and most pitiless cruelty. To
the child the snow storm signified only freezing cold and
the inability to procure the necessaries which her uncle
needed. And so she gazed upon it with a wild look,
which was so piteous in its appeal, so full of fear and
suffering, that any one beholding her would have shed
tears of sympathy, so evident was her agony.
For several minutes Ellie continued to gaze upon the
snow, shivering as she stood, for the room was bitter cold.
Then covering her face with her hands she sank down,
and for a time shook with passionate sobs, which she tried
in vain to check. Oh! what had she done that her merciful
Father in Heaven, should heap this last agony on her
to struggle alone against all the ills of life—what deadly
sin had she cherished, to draw down upon her head this
cruel, cruel trial?
And, as these thoughts passed through her mind, Ellie's
form shook again, and her brown hair wavered and fell,
but could not hide the flood of tears which streamed down
her cheeks. For some moments she remained thus overcome,
but gradually she grew calmer; and, leaning her
head on the cold, hard window-sill, prayed long and
earnestly.
She rose at last, murmuring, “Thy will be done,” and
drying her eyes, set to work upon her morning preparations.
A small bundle of splinters remained still, which
she had gathered in the street before going to bed on the
evening before, and with these she managed to kindle a
slight fire. She then assisted Charley in dressing, and
brushed his hair—going through all these things with a
forlorn resignation which was most touching.
Uncle Joe soon awoke, and Ellie hastened to his bed-side,
and with a cheerful smile asked him how he felt.
“Pretty well, daughter,” said Uncle Joe, faintly, “why
'seems there's a light! It's snow—snow!”
And a cloud passed over the thin flushed face.
“Oh, that's nothing!” said Ellie, smiling, to hide the
trembling of her lips, “that's nothing, dear uncle, and it
will soon melt and go away. You will be well very soon
now, and you see I am very happy.”
With which words Ellie feigned that she had left something
in her closet, and entering it hastily, burst into tears.
any sound, and had her cry out in silence. She then dried
her eyes, and trying to smile, came back and set about
her work again. Those tears had sprung from a thought
which suddenly came to her mind, a fact which for a moment
she had forgotten. There was nothing whatever
in the house—not so much as a morsel of bread for breakfast,
or a spoonful of tea.
Ellie's mind was racked with this thought, and she revolved
project after project. Where could she get the
material for breakfast?—that meal once over she would
have time to think. Face to face now with actual material
hunger—with the grim foe Want—she almost found her
energies paralyzed; and felt as though she could ask nothing
better than a painless sleep beneath the pitiless snow
which had disarmed her heart.
But the brave, hopeful nature soon banished such
thoughts, and with a murmured prayer the child put on
her old bonnet and opened the door, and went out, without
any direct project.
It was bitter cold, and the sun, struggling up through
a heavy mist, seemed to be the mere burlesque of an ordinary
sun, so chill and gloomy did it look. Ellie shivered,
and the cold wind penetrated to her very heart, chilling
the life blood in her veins.
Where should she go?
All her neighbors were as poor as herself—or nearly—
and to borrow of them, would almost be robbery, even
though they were willing to lend. The poor help each
from their own mouths.
Ellie stood despairingly upon the threshold thinking
where she should go. Borrow—nay, if necessary, beg—
she must. The only question was, where?
As these thoughts passed through her mind, she saw
the light of a fire shining through the cellar window of
the large dilapidated house which stood nearly opposite
to the cabin which her uncle occupied; and she remembered
that an old negro woman lived there, with whom
she had once or twice exchanged a word in passing. Her
kind face now came to Ellie's memory, and she determined
to go and borrow a little bread and tea of her.
In a minute she had hastened along the street, making
deep marks, as she walked, in the soft snow, and reached
the entrance to the cellar.
She went down the rough steps and knocked. The
voice of the old woman bade her come in, and Ellie opened
the door.
The very sight of the room seemed to revive the child;
and timidly entering, she looked around for a moment with
a sigh, which was not for herself.
If uncle had only that warm, pleasant-looking room!
13. CHAPTER XIII
AUNT PHILLIS.
In fact the apartment presented a sufficiently marked
contrast to the poor and cold abode in which Joe Lacklitter
lingered out the melancholy days of his fever and
sickness.
A good warm fire was blazing on the hearth, and the
old woman was already up and busy at her ironing, which
she performed upon a large table, at one end of which stood
a tub full of rough linen. Aunt Phillis supported herself
by washing, and she boasted a large and respectable
“connection” who depended upon her. The variety of
garments which now hung upon a “horse” in a corner
would have proved this; and the commingling of ages
and sexes in these garments was almost bewildering.
“Bless de Lord,” said Aunt Phillis, who was a comely
matron of sixty, “why if tain't little Ellie. How come on
dis cold mornin', chile.”
“I am very well, Aunt Phillis,” replied Ellie, “only
Uncle Joe is sick.”
“Sick is he? De Lord! Why he strong as Sampson,
when I see him. Well, well!”
And Aunt Phillis, not forgetting work, tried her iron
to ascertain its amount of heat, and plunged it into the
heart of a prostrate shirt.
Ellie blushed, and hesitated, so great was her repugnance
to what seemed like begging.
“I thought I'd come over, Aunt Phillis—and—and—
that is—”
Ellie's voice died in her throat, and her eyes filled with
tears.
Aunt Phillis paused in her work, and looked at the
child.
“What, cryin' chile?” she said.
“Oh, no! I'm not crying,” said Ellie, with the tears
running down her cheeks; “only Uncle Joe is sick, and
—and—we have nothing in the house,—and—I thought
if you would—lend me a little tea—”
Ellie stopped, overcome by the effort which these few
words had cost her, and, bending down, cried from
emotion and weakness.
“Tea!” said Aunt Phillis: “you want a little tea?”
“Just a little, if you please,” sobbed Ellie.
“Jest as much as you choose, an' more too,” said
Aunt Phillis, laying down her iron heartily; “somethin'
'sides, too.”
And going to her cupboard, she brought out an old
battered teapot, and some bread and cold ham.
“There chile!” she said; “you jest take whatever you
want: and don't you mind 'bout 'turnin' of it tell you's
ready.”
Ellie looked gratefully at the kind, good face, and that
face was really exceedingly handsome at the moment, for
it was full of warmth and affection.
“Jest take what you want, I tell you,” said Aunt
Phillis, “an' welcome.”
Ellie thanked her gratefully, and poured some tea and
pressed by Aunt Phillis, added a little bit of ham.
Refusing to take more, the child then thanked her warmly
again, and returned home.
Uncle Joe was looking for her, and she assumed her
cheerful smile, and soon made some tea, and prepared
breakfast. The invalid ate a small portion of the ham,
the rest being consumed by Charley; and thus the day
commenced.
But the fuel: that was now the child's thought. It
was absolutely necessary that the room should not be
without fire, and where to procure the smallest stick of
wood, Ellie could not think. The snow had covered up
every chance bit and chip; and she well knew that she
could not hope for anything there. Where should she
go?
As the fire gradually dwindled down, the child's
anxiety became greater and greater; and when Charley
shivered and drew nearer, and Uncle Joe drew the cover
faintly over his head, Ellie's eyes filled for the third time
that morning with tears. She felt, too, that this nervous
feeling arose from her weakness, and the anxiety she had
undergone for days, and the still darker prospect opened
upon her, of her own sickness—the very thought of which
made her shudder.
She opened her Bible, and looked at it wildly. Her
eyes fell upon what she had often read before, but it had
never impressed her so wondrously—with such profound
reality. “Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy
laden, and I will give you rest.... for I am meek
souls.”
To the mind of the child, agitated and rendered nervously
sensitive to emotion, it seemed that He who
uttered those words stood before her, with a sad smile of
infinite love and pity on his countenance; and that he
bent towards her, holding out his arms with unspeakable
tenderness and goodness. So carried away was the
child by this vision, that the Bible fell from her hand,
and sinking upon her knees, she prayed with clasped
hands and moist eyes raised toward heaven; and so, slowly
felt her fear and nervous tremor leave her; and rose up
with a warmth at her heart which melted every fear, and
banished all anxiety. She felt around her that arm which
is stronger than life or death, than things present or
things to come.
She picked up her Bible, and as she did so, the card
given her by the stranger, which had caught in its leaves,
fell on the floor. Ellie looked at it for a moment
strangely, took it up, and went and put on her bonnet.
She approached the bed, with her sweet smile, and
said:
“I'm going to run out for half-an-hour, uncle. Cover
up well, and I'll soon be back. Charley will stay with you.”
And not waiting for a reply, the child hastened out,
and set forward resolutely, toward the office of Mr. Sansoucy,
who had told her to call on him when she wanted
a friend. That time had come, and repressing the blush
of shame which dyed her cheek as she thought of her
errand, the child hastened on.
14. CHAPTER XIV.
HOW ELLIE MET WITH HER FRIEND LUCIA.
Ellie hastened on, wrapping her cold hands in her
thin apron, and bending down her head to avoid the
freezing wind which swept over the snow, and around the
corners, and flapped the shutters angrily.
She hastened on, and after a long walk, came to the
street described on the card. The address needed not to
be scanned again; it was engraved on her memory, and
she soon found herself at the house. She ascended a
flight of stairs, then another, and finally came to a door
upon which a plate with the name “E. Sansoucy,” was
affixed.
She knocked timidly, but no reply was given; and
unconsciously the child turned the knob; the door was
locked—Mr. Sansoucy was not within!
For a moment Ellie felt weak and faint, and a cloud
seemed to pass before her eyes, from which the name engraved
upon the plate gleamed pitilessly, as though every
letter were a goblin, and felt an irrepressible desire to laugh
at her and defy her. Her knees bent beneath her, and
sinking down upon the steps, she covered her face and
burst into tears of very weakness and despair.
Oh, to see her last hope pass from her—to be met thus
by an obstinate and pitiless fate—to feel that her struggles
were in vain, her hopes but ashes, her future and the future
of her uncle, delivered into the hands of those grim
jailors, Hunger and Despair! To feel that nothing was
to have deserted her, and turned away his face! That
was the cruel pang which tore her heart—she could endure
all but that! Nothing was spared her, and under this
last blow, her heart bent down, faint and sick and ready
to abandon any further struggle.
The child remained thus for some moments silent and
motionless in the presence of her destiny—battling with
it, and crying out in her heart for some poor crumb of
comfort. With a sort of terror at her doubts she murmured
a passionate prayer, and rose up, wringing her hands
and sobbing.
Where should she go—what should she do? But one
hope was left—work from Mrs. Brown or Miss Incledon,
and speedy work; work, at which she might toil day and
night, wearing her fingers away, but accomplishing it.
She roused herself and set forward again with the resignation
of despair.
Mrs. Brown's shop was shut. As her eyes fell upon
the cold, cruel door, the child felt her throat contract; and
her breast shook. One hope alone was left then—Miss
Incledon, who possibly might have returned. She set
forward as rapidly as she could towards the house.
As she was going along thus, Ellie suddenly found herself
close to a young girl, who seemed to be wandering
forlornly about without any settled object. She was a
child of twelve or thirteen, with dark hair, dark eyes,
and the imperceptible tinge of brown which characterizes
the inhabitants of southern lands. Another glance told
that her extraction was Italian—for seldom do the women
looked out, full of sadness, from the face of this child.
She was miserably clad, and had in her countenance a
species of dumb despair, which told a tale of want not to
be misunderstood.
“Oh, Lucia!” said Ellie, with a feeling of despairing
comfort at seeing a familiar and friendly face, “I am so
glad to see you, though you do not look well. Where are
you going?
“Nowhere,” said Lucia, in a voice of melancholy sweetness,
and with an Italian accent, “I was just wandering,
Ellie.”
And Lucia mechanically pressed the child's hand, and
walked on beside her.
“I was so sorry—so much grieved—to hear”—faltered
Ellie, endeavoring not to excite her companion's feelings,
“to hear of your loss, Lucia. Indeed, I was coming to
you, but—but—Uncle Joe is very sick.”
And Ellie suppressed a sob which threatened to drown
her voice.
“Yes,” said Lucia with a sort of mechanical movement
of her head, and without shedding any tears, or exhibiting
other signs of emotion, “Yes, I am alone now—alone in
the world.”
“Oh, not alone!” said Ellie, moved by the sad, sweet
face, “we are not alone! You have lost your earthly
father, but your Father in heaven remains!”
Lucia looked at her companion with a puzzled expression:
then with the same mechanical movement of her
head, said,
“You mean God?”
“Oh, yes!”
“I do not believe in God,” said the child, calmly.
“Not believe in him!”
“No!”
“Oh, Lucia!”
“How can I!” said the child, with a sort of momentary
fire in her dark eyes, which, however, soon disappeared, as
she went on speaking, “I have thought a great deal about
a God, and I have tried to believe that there was one, who
would love me, Ellie. But I do not believe there is—no
there is not—I do not believe it,” she added, calmly, again.
Ellie looked at her friend for some moments with mute
grief, as though she had wholly forgotten her own troubles
in presence of this distressing incredulity.
“Oh, Lucia!” she said, “you make me feel so badly
by your unbelief. I have enough to distress me already,
and you ought not to add to it. Not believe in God!”
said the child, with a sort of incredulous pity, “oh,
Lucia! how unhappy you must be!”
“I am!” said the child. “I am very unhappy.”
“Oh! but trust in God!”
“I cannot.”
“But try, Lucia! pray for faith, and submission, and
pardon—pray to Him, and He will not turn away!”
“How can I? I do not believe in him,” added the
child, obstinately. “If there is a God, he has made me
wretched!” she cried, with despairing energy. “All that
I love in the world is gone. I am sick of life!”
A hectic flush covered the wan cheek, and the child was
with the warm feelings which the child possessed can comprehend
the pain she felt at hearing all that she clung to
and leaned upon, thus set at defiance and rejected.
“Oh, Lucia! Lucia! how unhappy you make me!”
she cried, “how my heart bleeds for you! How miserable
you must be not to put any trust in God, or the Saviour
who died for us. You are wretched, you say, and that
makes you doubt God. But oh! it is wrong!—it is
wrong! This world is not a place for happiness only, but
God means we should be tried. Our faith would be
nothing if we were always happy, and in the last words
Jesus said to his disciples, he told them that they should
suffer all sorts of misfortunes. Oh, pain, and sickness,
and misery, are not driven away by God, for they often
make us better. Jesus suffered all these, and died for us
on the cross;—and after all this, you say God has no love
for us!”
The child's face was beautiful as she uttered these
words, and such was the kindness and earnest tenderness
of her voice, that the frozen heart began to melt, and the
child Lucia's despair to give way to tears—that blessed
rain, which waters the dry and brittle heart, and keeps it
from breaking with its load of anguish.
“God loved us so that he gave his only son for us,”
said Ellie, earnestly, “and Jesus suffered more than we
can ever suffer. But he did not doubt God; he said,
`Father, thy will be done,' even when he was drinking the
bitter cup of agony, the bible says. He suffered pain and
sorrow—he was beaten, and bruised, and crucified. He
so dearly that he gave his life for us. Oh, he will never
desert us if we trust in Him!”
“If I could only believe it!—if I could only believe
it!” murmured the child, bending down her head.
“Pray to him, Lucia, and you will—indeed you will.
He offers his love to all—He tells all that will, to come
and take the water of life freely—no matter how poor, and
wicked, and unhappy they are. It is offered to all; and
if you are poor, and hungry, and sick, he will love and
pity you all the more.”
The child's head drooped lower, and the frozen heart
began to beat. There was such tenderness in Ellie's voice
that it penetrated the crust of misery and despair, and
shone in the poor bruised heart like a heavenly light.
Ellie saw that her friend was not so unhappy, and said:
“Do not think so any more, Lucia, please. Indeed it
is wrong—oh, indeed it is! It is not the grand and the
happy only who are called—it is the poor and miserable
too; and they have more need of God's protection. I am
not saying what I do not believe—for oh! Lucia, I am
not happy—that is, I have so much to make me unhappy.
Uncle Joe is sick, and we have nothing to eat, and I do
not know what is to become of us,” faltered Ellie, “but I
trust in God. I know that he will not desert me—oh,
no! no! He will never desert me, if I put my faith and
trust in Him! Oh, Lucia!” added the child, putting her
arm tenderly round her companion's neck and crying, “do
not think He will desert us because we are poor and
unhappy! He came to suffer for us—for me and you—
give him our hearts, and be his little children!”
And Ellie leaned her head upon the child's shoulder,
and sobbed and cried, and in her heart prayed for her.
15. CHAPTER XV.
THE RICH DO NOT DESPISE THE POOR; THEY ONLY
KNOW NOTHING ABOUT THEM.
There are tones of the voice which cannot be resisted—
looks of love and tenderness which the most obdurate
heart finds itself unable to withstand. The voice of Ellie,
as she uttered the words we have repeated, went to the
poor frozen heart—and its dull current leaped.
Lucia could not resist the child's love and tenderness,
and tears: her poor heart melted, her despair gave way;
she seemed to return to life again as the voice of Ellie
sounded in the cold and vacant chambers of her soul.
She had still a friend who loved her—she began to feel
that she had, more than all, a supreme, heavenly Friend;
and overcome by the warm flood of emotion, excited by
the words of the child, she leaned upon Ellie's shoulder,
and, sobbing passionately, said:
“Oh, Ellie, you are so good and kind! You have
made me hope again, and God will bless you for thinking
of me in your own misfortune and distress. I was very
unhappy, but you have made me almost happy. Oh,
pray for me, and ask God to take pity on me, and show
in him, for I am very poor and miserable!”
Ellie replied tenderly to these piteous words, and they
passed on, talking earnestly, and pouring out their hearts
to each other, unreservedly and freely. It was a singular
spectacle, these two mere children thus threading their
way through the crowd of wayfarers who passed them by
with careless indifference, or with a laugh, when the tears
in their eyes were descried. Ellie had spoken to Lucia
at a more critical time than she knew or imagined. Her
thoughts had taken an unhealthy direction, and with the
cold self-possession of the miserable and desperate, she
begun to think of suicide. Why should she live, she had
thought, when life seemed to promise nothing but wretchedness
and agony;—when the grim spectre, Want,
already waited to clutch her,—when she had not one
object to cling to, not one thing or person to regret; not
one tie to bind her to a life full of darkness and suffering?
Her father was dead—she had no friends, she thought:
why not set forth upon that voyage which should lead
her to a stranger country still?
The child's reflections had brought her to this point,
when the voice of Ellie roused her from her abstraction,
and caused her to fix her cold and vacant eyes upon the
real world around her. As we have seen, she answered
coldly to the words of Ellie; but little as those words
convinced her of the ingratitude and sin she was committing
by banishing all hope, and contemplating a great
crime, still the tones of Ellie's voice were not to be mistaken.
The tenderness and pity of the child fell upon
and, leaning upon the shoulder of Ellie, she had wept for
the first time since her loss.
“Oh, how good you are, Ellie, and how wretched I
am!” she cried; “Oh! if I could believe in God as you
do, and trust to him, I might wish to live; for when you
came, I was thinking that the cold water would end all
my wretchedness. Speak to me, again, Ellie! tell me
that I am not lost! Oh, I am so wretched!”
And the girl sobbed and moaned, and wept. Ellie
forgot her own griefs and anxieties, and thinking, with a
shudder, that the same idea had passed through her own
mind in the morning, applied herself earnestly to the task
of inspiring hope in the bosom of her despairing friend.
Lucia listened sadly, but more tranquilly than before, and
once or twice, a sad, wan smile—one of those smiles
which only the faces of the unhappy wear—flitted over
her countenance.
They went on talking thus until they reached Miss
Incledon's, where Ellie stopped; telling her friend her
errand, Lucia said she would return home then, and
made Ellie promise to come and see her in her old room,
if she could that evening. Thus they parted, and Ellie
ascended the broad steps and knocked, as Lucia disappeared
in the ever-moving throng.
Again the child had passed from that cold, bleak world
of the streets, where the tide of life flows on over the poor
and unhappy, to the abode of warmth, and domestic comfort
and repose; and again her sad eyes slowly and calmly
made the circuit of the handsome hall, with its rich hat-stand,
from the white ceiling.
Who has ever succeeded in penetrating the thoughts of
the poor and unfortunate, when these things are thrown
before them—when the weak heart is prompted to exclaim,
“Your luxury robs me of my bread—your blazing fires
from morn 'till midnight, make me freeze in my cold
hovel!” Who has ever dissected the mind of one of the
world's unfortunates, thus face to face with wealth and
comfort, forever denied to them, however passionately
yearned for? But we may imagine their feelings:—and
as there are doubtless those who bitterly envy their fortunate
possessors, and rail at Providence, and the world; let
us hope there are also others who feel that wealth and
comfort are but circumstances of position; that the true
heart, the kindly spirit, the love and obedience, of that
heart, are all that should be valued, and looked to, in the
short pilgrimage of Life.
Thus it is not too much to say that Ellie envied none
of these things; and if the thought occurred to her that
her uncle would be rendered happy by a thousandth part
of all this comfort—still her heart was quite free from
envy, and she had no bitterness.
Ellie was still looking down when Miss Incledon descended
and said, carelessly,
“Oh, it is you, is it?”
“Yes, ma'am,” said the child.
“I promised you some work, did I not?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“I am sorry, but I have so much to attend to, that I
and I will give you a collar to do—and if it suits me, I
will pay you well. The collar will take you a week's hard
work; but if it pleases me I will be as generous as I can,”
added Miss Incledon, as she ran up stairs, without waiting
for Ellie's reply.
And that was all. To the young lady, full of her possessing
thoughts, Ellie was simply a girl who wished to
work—not a child fainting and in despair for the want of
nourishment. Thoughtless and inexperienced in the condition
of the poor, it never occurred to her, that the child
might need, actually want, a portion of the money for her
work: and she no more realized anything of this than she
realized the condition of any barbarous tribe of Tartary
or Caucasus. So true is it, as we have said—that the
rich do not despise the poor—they only know nothing about
them.
16. CHAPTER XVI.
HOW MR. SANSOUCY CHEATED THE WIND AND THE COLD.
The child had spent so much time in her different visits—
to the office of Mr. Sansoucy, to Mrs. Brown's, and to Miss
Incledon's—with the incident of the meeting with Lucia,
added—that when she left the house, with a hopeless sob,
the afternoon was drawing on, and the day rapidly giving
way, to night.
With dumb lips, but a despairing cry in her heart, she
and tottered on again as before. All hope seemed to have
left her; in her bosom her weak heart seemed to fail and
die; a cloud passed before her eyes, and the passing flood
of wayfarers seemed to be a part of some great phantasmagoria,
which was playing there before her. Faint for
want of food, for she had scarcely touched anything in the
morning—given over nearly to utter despair, to think that
her uncle and little brother were suffering for want of fire,
and actual bread—her weak feet scarcely rose from the
pavement, her knees bent beneath her, and the cold pitiless
wind struck her to the heart, and laughed at her with
terrible laughter.
Tottering on thus, it seemed that every blast would strike
her to the earth; that every snow-drift would be her deathbed,
that every step would be her last in this world, on
the unpitying earth.
It is a hard thing to feel that life has no hopes, no illusions,
no romance—that the future may be nothing but
weariness—our days passed in a long routine of languid
sickness and regret. But oh! it is harder still to be a
fainting child, and to feel that society ignores you; to be
a poor child, with pain, and suffering, and hunger for the
whole dark future; to know that the hoarse dogs of winter
will soon tear you down, and hurl you on some bank
of snow to die, like an animal, of cold, and wretchedness,
and want. Let a poor writer utter from the depth of his
heart the irrepressible conviction that the state of things
which generates this evil is false and terrible, that society
is deeply culpable for permitting this blot upon her
ones, and say, “They were my mother and my brethren,
and ye visited them not, nor aided them, nor took any pity
on them!” For if anything is true, this is true, that
raising up the fainting head of that dying unfortunate,
you hold upon your breast the brow of Him who died
upon the cross—that passing by upon the other side, you
pass by Him who said to Peter, “Feed my lambs.”
Society—a Christian society—let it always be repeated—
takes upon itself a frightful, an enormous responsibility,
in ignoring, in not relieving, all this suffering.
Fainter and fainter the child became as she walked on,
and the movement of her feet was rather mechanical than
otherwise—for she knew not whither she was going.
Colder and colder her heart began to feel, and every blast
of the chill and pitiless wind swept over her like a sharp
steel blade severing her flesh, and driving back to its
inmost retreat the subtle and failing principle of existence.
Still she tottered on, looking with dim, faint eyes upon
the objects around her. An irrepressible unmbness began
to invade her limbs, and she finally fell, rather than sat,
upon a door-step, sheltered from the wind by a projection
of the building.
She leaned her head upon her knees, and cowered thus
from the freezing wind, and tried to pray, as though she
felt that earth was passing from her. But her faculties
were confused, and she scarcely knew her situation. In
another hour she would have sunk from exhaustion, and
been “one more unfortunate” for the avid daily press—but
her end was not to be then.
She was suddenly aroused by a cheering and hopeful
voice, and a heavy hand was laid upon her shoulder—a
heavy and kindly hand.
“Why, my acquaintance of the other day!” exclaimed
Mr. Sansoucy, “miraculously turned up here at my
door-sill!”
And so indeed it was. By a sort of instinct Ellie had
felt that she ought to go and find if Mr. Sansoucy had
returned—and this instinct had guided her wandering
feet until she sank down at his door, too weak to ascend,
and forgetful of her errand.
“Why, you are not asleep, little one!—that is not possible!”
cried Mr. Sansoucy, drawing his cloak around him,
“why, you will freeze. Come up!”
With great difficulty, Ellie, only half aroused from her
death stupor, ascended the stairs; and inserting a key in
the lock of the door bearing the name, “E. Sansoucy,”
her conductor threw it open, and inducted her into his
sanctum.
There was a bright fire burning, and the apartment,
which seemed to be the antechamber to another, and a
larger one, was evidently the business office of an editor.
The floor was covered with journals, the table and chairs
with volumes, and pens, ink and paper—the latter yellow—lay
ready for use upon the table.
Mr. Sansoucy led Ellie to the fire, and more than once
her weak and wandering feet struck against volumes
hidden beneath journals upon the floor—volumes no doubt
written by cruel and unfeeling authors, who had tried to
trip up honest people's faith in truth, and failing, took
in the pathway of a child. They finally reached the fire,
however, and Mr. Sansoucy, making Ellie sit in a low,
comfortable chair—which resembled an island in an ocean
of newspapers—said cheerfally and kindly, as he rubbed
her freezing hand:
“Here we are at last, little one, and you 'll get warm.”
The wind and cold were thus cheated of their prey.
17. CHAPTER XVII.
THE EDITOR OF THE “WEEKLY MAMMOTH.”
There was about Mr. Sansoucy that cheering and
inspiring atmosphere, which often has so powerful an
effect upon those who are thrown into it, before a word
has been spoken, or any sympathy offered. It was a
cordial to Ellie, his simple presence; and again she
experienced that singular and indefinable sensation, which
had seized her upon their first interview, some days before.
It seemed to her that there was some hidden identity
between her own character and that of the person in whose
presence she now was; and his smile invigorated and
restored her more than the cheerful fire—the contact of
his hand raised her drooping spirits more than even the
new-born hope which struggled at her heart.
As the color came back to her cheeks, and her eyes
made the circuit, absently, of the apartment, thence
returning to dwell, full of trust and confidence, upon his
hand, attacked the fire vigorously with the poker.
“Faith! I believe you were going to be frozen down
there, my young friend,” he said: “but now you are
not so badly off, are you? Don't judge of my hospitality
by the stumbles you made in coming to the fire over
these volumes. They are a set of rascals who come to
me to be reviewed in the “Weekly Mammoth”— which I
venture to say, is an animal you know nothing about.'
As he uttered these words, Mr. Sansoucy busied himself
in bringing forth from an escrutoire, a bottle of wine
which he uncorked.
“The Mammoth, little one, is a wild animal,” he continued
pouring out a glassful of the wine, “which is nursed
by `devils' technicaliy so called,—cradled in ink, and let
loose periodically to devour the public, or their purses,
which amounts nearly to the same thing. Of this savage
animal I am the keeper and the master!”
Having achieved this succinct description of the Journal
which he edited, Mr. Sansoucy forced Ellie to swallow
the glass of wine he had poured out, and thereafter two
more glasses.
The child drank the wine almost mechanically, with the
same silent look — as if, indeed, she had abdicated all
exercise of her own will, implicitly relying upon that of
another, and a stronger. She did well, in this instance,
at least; for, before many moments had passed, her cheeks
recovered their color, her stiffened limbs relaxed, and
bending down, the tears which had been gathering in her
eyes, fell, relieving her overburdened heart. She had
boundary separating this world from the unexplored
domain beyond.
Mr. Sansoucy looked at her fixedly, and wondering
at the sweetness and goodness of the child's countenance,
said softly,
“What is your name, little one?”
“Ellen Lacklitter, sir,” replied Ellie, looking up
through her tears.
“Ah, Ellen is it? A pretty name. You did not give
me your card,” he said, smiling, “as I gave you mine.
But I'm glad you came—you know me now—my name is
Sansoucy—I am a literary machine, and dreadfully mercenary—a
machine which moves a pen only where fuel in
the shape of money is supplied. See there what an excellent
description I am giving you, while you, poor little
one, are almost too cold to understand me! Let me
come to business now—you must have wanted a friend—
speak and tell me if you do. You must, indeed, on such
a day as this—the wind is freezing, and faith! I think it
is cutting my window panes!”
Mr. Sansoucy had been assiduously working at the fire
during this speech, and had supplied it with various
journals, which it seemed to relish very much indeed, and
devour with deep delight. Having two or three times
just escaped setting the chimney on fire, he drew back
and sat down—coming to the end of his work and his
speech at the same moment.
The child hesitated a moment, stole a timid glance at
faltering voice:
“Uncle Joe's very sick, sir—and I thought—as you
said I might—I could not get any work—oh! sir, uncle
is so sick and we are so unhappy!”
“Uncle Joe?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Joe Lacklitter, eh?”
“Yes, sir,” faltered Ellie.
“I know Joe Lacklitter.”
“Oh! do you, sir?”
“Yes, indeed, I do.”
“He is very sick, and I love him so, sir;—oh! it is
so hard.”
Mr. Sansoucy was silent.
“I have tried to do all I could, and I have prayed to
God to help us, and give us comfort, and he has been very
good to us. But I couldn't get some work I expected—
and the snow came on, you know, sir—and—and—we
have no—”
Ellie could not finish, her voice quite broke down, and
covering her face, she cried, for some moments, silently.
Mr. Sansoucy laid back in his chair, and assuming a
bold and Spartan expression, endeavored to catch a
glimpse of his face in the mirror, over the fire-place, as
though to assure himself that he looked heroic and composed.
Having apparently satisfied himself on this point,
he took out his pocket-handkerchief, and blew his nose
with a steady and graceful hand; after which performance
he looked grander than ever, and uttered an oracular:
“Hum!”
The child suppressed her emotion, and taking away her
hands gazed into the fire, thereby permitting the light to
illuminate the dew-drops, which remained where they had
fallen, on her cheeks.
Mr. Sansoucy gracefully pulled up his collar, which was
already sawing his ears, and said,
“How did Uncle Joe fall sick?”
“Carrying newspapers, early in the cold morning,” said
Ellie, raising her eyes, still filled with that extraordinary
softness and sweetness which had struck the journalist
before, “he was always up and out before day-break, sir,
and it often made him unwell, but never much sick. But he
was taken with a fever, the other day, and he couldn't go
any more.”
“A fever?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who carries the papers?”
“I don't know, sir. Charley sold some,” faltered Ellie.
“Charley?”
“Yes, sir; but he was too little—he is my brother, sir—
and he hadn't any shoes, and cried because the pavement
was so cold.
“Cried!” said Mr. Sansoucy, austerely.
“Oh, sir,—he's such a little boy—and when he came
home, his face was all stained with the papers.”
“What! his tears had been wiped away with the
journals.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ellen,” said Mr. Sansoucy, reclining in his chair, and
boy who wipes his eyes with the morning papers of subscribers
is on the high road to the —. Well! that is
not to the purpose. Is this all you have had to live on,
Ellie?”
“Oh, no, sir; I can work, and—and—we had some
things which I got some money for.”
“Pawned!” exclaimed Mr. Sansoucy.
“Yes, sir,” faltered Ellie.
“What?”
“It was—only—I didn't want it—”
“Your shawl or cloak, as I live!” cried Mr. Sansoucy,
bounding in his chair. “What scoundrel took away your
shawl?”
“Nobody! that was nothing—I am not cold—and oh,
sir, if uncle was only warm and comfortable, I wouldn't
care!”
Ellie's voice began to falter again, as she thought of her
sick uncle, and every word seemed to struggle with a sob
18. CHAPTER XVIII.
HOW THE EDITOR OF THE WEEKLY MAMMOTH CAUSED
THAT JOURNAL TO WAIT FOR COPY.
Mr. Sansoucy looked at the child for some moments
in silence, and there was so much odd and humorous pity
and tenderness in his face, that Ellie found her voice came
long lashes, did not fall.
“Well,” said Mr. Sansoucy, “if you could only see
your uncle warm and comfortable—”
“Oh, I should be so happy, sir!” said Ellie.
“Would you?”
“Oh, yes, sir—I got some work and the money went a
great way with us,” she went on, “and what you gave me,
sir, so kindly, bought uncle's medicines and tea; but we
have to spend so much!”
“Continue,” said Mr. Sansoucy, gazing at a bust of
Zeno, the stoic, and beating time upon his chair.
“I worked as long as I could, sir,” continued the child,
“and I tried to do my duty. But uncle is no better, and
our wood gave out—and Charley is crying now, I am
afraid. Oh, I tried to get some work, and I have tried to-day,
and, indeed, indeed, I never could have come to beg,”
a hectic flush accompanied the word, “if uncle was not
suffering. If you could give me anything to do for you—
some sewing!—I can sew very well—or anything—and—
pay me just a little money in advance—for uncle—not
me—”
And choked with tears, Ellie bent down and cried her
old silent cry; and then dried her eyes, or tried to, with
her fingers. Before she knew it, Mr. Sansoucy's white
handkerchief was assisting the fingers, and with a savage
look at the bust of Zeno, the gentleman rose.
“Now, Ellie,” said Mr. Sansoucy, “now that you have
stopped that, we will repair to the abode of Uncle Joe.”
“Oh, will you go with me!” cried Ellie, rising and
clasping her hands.
“Certainly, I will.”
“To uncle, sir?”
“Exactly.”
“How good and kind you are!” exclaimed the child,
with a look of tender gratitude, which went straight to the
stoic's heart.
“Pshaw!” said Mr. Sansoucy, pulling on his overcoat
in a business-like way. “I'm going down that way: I
have business there this afternoon. Where did you say it
was?” added Mr. Sansoucy, abstractedly.
Before Ellie could reply, he burst into a laugh.
“It is not so far, sir,” murmured Ellie.
“No, but so cold, mam'selle!”
“Sir?”
“Nothing!” said Mr. Sansoucy, declining to translate,
“now stand still, my dear little lady, and let us see if we
can't supply the place of that shawl, or other wrapping,
alienated from you, by your friend, the pawnbroker.”
Ellie would have refused—denying that it was too cold
for her—but to any demur upon her part, Mr. Sansoucy
paid no attention.
“There is a coat,” he said, opening a closet, “but you
would attract public attention; everybody would laugh at
you, and my friends would laugh at me—which is one of
the most awful and terrible misfortunes which can happen.”
“Oh, I don't think I want—”
“Then that dressing-gown,” continued Mr. Sansoucy,
thoughtfully, “that might do.”
“Oh, no, sir, I never could—”
“But that would be a small edition of myself in petti—
no, that word is not to be mentioned in polite society.
The dressing gown decidedly won't do.”
Ellie tried to interpose again: but she was arrested by
Mr. Sansoucy, who suddenly caught at a large, heavy
shawl, such as are worn by travellers, and dragged it into
the light, as though it had been a malefactor lurking in
the closet with felonious intentions.
“Try on that, little girl; and stay, let me aid you.”
Ellie could not resist: indeed, her resistance was very
faint, for the freezing cold without, came vividly to her
memory, and she looked longingly at the warm, heavy
shawl.
“There, it is folded to suit mam'selle's shoulders,” said
Mr. Sansoucy, smiling, “and now put it on—well around
the shoulders.”
Ellie did so with a grateful blush; and before she could
thank him, found her neck enveloped in a thick, heavy
comfort, which Mr. Sansoucy cautioned the child to wrap
in such a way that nothing should be visible but her nose.
Ellie, with tears of gratitude in her eyes, submitted to
this, and to all of Mr. Sansoucy's directions; and then he
led the way out.
“It is probable,” he said, as he locked the door, “that
an emissary from the paper will speedily arrive here in
pursuit of my editorial; in which case, this landing here
will be an eligible platform for him to wait and kick his
heels upon. One of the most serene and pleasant sensations
in the world, my little friend, is that derived from
this pleasure. Now let us get on, for the afternoon
is growing colder and darker! Come!”
So saying, Mr. Sansoucy led the way down the steep
flight of stairs, followed by Ellie; and they reached the
bleak and frozen streets.
“Did any body ever see so black a day,” said the journalist,
“it's as dark as a waif's mouth. Come, my little
friend—we've no time to lose!”
And taking Ellie's hand, Mr. Sansoucy went forth with
his small companion on his mission.
19. CHAPTER XIX.
SKETCHES A GENTLEMAN OF THE LAW.
The man and the child soon left the broad and well-kept
streets, and ere long found themselves in that unmistakeable
quarter, which all cities possess—the quarter
yielded up to the poor—where thin gentlemen walking
on air at Hebrew doors, flap in the faces of wayfarers,
audibly murmuring “old clo”'—where squalid men and
women swarm—where, in a word, the tide of life pours
on through mud and over stones, unknown, nay, not so
much as dreamed of, by the pleasure parties gliding with
gay music through the sunlit ripples overhead.
Here was the abode of Joe Lacklitter, and they soon
came to the door of the low cabin. Ellie, with her
that gentleman looked round.
His eye took in at once all the details of the poor
apartment—the broken chairs, rude table, and low bed;
and then his gaze rested upon Charley, who was cowering
over a few expiring cinders—the mere mockery of a fire.
Mr. Sansoucy inwardly reflected that any respectable
scare-crow in a cornfield would indignantly have repelled
the idea of relationship to Charley. Charley, as we
have formerly said, was one integral rag from top to toe
—reduced to that condition of comparative respectability
by Ellie's needle; and his shaggy curls had not been
brushed that morning very carefully. He had one foot
suspended forlornly over the almost imaginary fire; and
his left thumb was in the right corner of his mouth, while
he hummed a mournful tune, which sounded like the death
chaunt at some goblin funeral.
Charley started back at first, upon seeing Mr. Sansoucy:
but that gentleman assumed the chair next to the
child, and winding his fingers in the straw-colored hair,
looked at him with a smile, which reassured him.
Ellie had hastened to the bed at once, and, to her great
relief, found her uncle sleeping comfortably. Her whole
heart went forth in a warm, grateful prayer, and she
turned toward the fire-place.
“Has uncle been sleeping well, Charley?” she asked,
softly.
“Mos' all day,” said the child.
Ellie uttered a sigh of relief, and bending over the fire-place,
tried to make the burnt-out embers blaze. As she
Sansoucy—that eccentric Mr. Sansoucy, who thought
something of the sort might be of use—drew from his
overcoat pocket, a huge knot of resin-wood, crammed
with combustible properties. This he placed on the fire,
and then drew back, holding Ellie's hand.
The wood caught immediately, and the whole room
was filled with the light and warmth which it threw out.
“Now, Ellen, is there a store very near?” asked Mr.
Sansoucy.
“Yes, sir,” said the child.
“Get a basket, and your shawl, there, and let us go
and see if we can't find something for Uncle Joe.”
Ellie, with irrepressible tears of gratitude at this kindness,
obeyed, and the man and the child repaired to
Captain Schminky's. The cold chicken, and cheese and
biscuits, and wine, which were purchased by Mr. Sansoucy,
would appear fabulous were we to describe them;
and when the contents of the basket were taken out
before the eyes of Charley, his eyes opened to a dangerous
extent, and his tongue, visible between his teeth,
expressed the most unutterable astonishment.
Of Ellie's thanks and gratitude, why speak? Of her
eyes, brim full of that gratitude, we might say a word;
but no description, however cunningly worded, could
convey an idea of the beautiful look she gave the author
of this magic.
Mr. Sansoucy has since declared that this was perhaps
the happiest moment of his life—that the expression of
Ellie's face caused him the deepest pleasure he was able
pure angel, such as Raphael Sanzio might have seen in
one of his bright reveries, and died to think he could not
place upon his canvass.
Perhaps it was because this satisfied him perfectly, and
was the payment he had selfishly expected—perhaps he
did not want to receive the thanks of Joe, or any further
looks of gratitude from Ellie—perhaps he was obliged to
return to his affairs—but after thus doing his good part,
the editor rose softly, and put on his hat.
But often are the children of men mistaken in their calculations—and
on this occasion Mr. E. Sansoucy was
most certainly destined to delay his departure for some
time yet.
If the reader will deign to cast his eyes back upon a
former page of our chronicle, he will find that among the
names exhibited as a memorandum to Mr. A. Fantish, by
the senior Fantish, on the morning of their conversation,
was the name of Lacklitter—against which Lacklitter
it appeared that Mr. Fantish, senior, had a claim for rent
unpaid—which claim had finally been put into the considerate
hands of “The Law,” and by that agency was
now about to be presented for premptory discharge.
This debt had been owed by Uncle Joe for only a very
short time, and he would probably have paid it very soon
but for his unfortunate sickness. He had told Mr. Fantish,
but a short time before, that he hoped soon to pay it;
and so had given himself no further anxiety about it, fully
confiding in his ability.
Mr. Fantish, senior, however, was much too sagacious
a “levy” upon the Lacklitter effects for the small sum, and
this was the proceeding adopted by Mr. Fantish, with the
assistance of the Law and its myrmidons.
All this preamble goes to introduce a gentleman, who
knocked rudely at the door, just as Mr. Sansoucy was
about to take his departure, and who entered immediately
as one having authority, and if not sure of a welcome, at
least relying on his power.
This man—let us try an outline sketch of him—was the
representative of a class who, managing to induct themselves
into the low places of the law, throw shame and
discredit upon the administration of justice, and lower in
public estimation the many kind-hearted and amiable men
who are associated with them in a similar capacity.
Obsequious and cringing to the rich, this gentleman was
fierce and cruel to the poor; he never failed to strike a
disarmed victim, or to fawn upon and lick the hand which
could open to bestow a “consideration,” or close to inflict
a blow. It was almost amusing to witness the assiduity
with which he would court and flatter the fortunate
possessor of “much moneys;” and it was an admirable
philosophic spectacle to see him taking off his hat to a
man who could impeach him for misconduct. Consistent
in his admiration for wealth, he treated its possessors with
uniform respect; and so harmonious and faithful in coloring
was his meanness, that it impressed you with the force
of a Spartan virtue. Not, however, to analyze too
curiously a character scarcely destined to reappear in our
chronicle—which would fain busy itself with more entertaining
insects of the times, which buzz, and breed, and sting,
and are finally brushed away by that public disgust, which
is not seldom visited on the best sustained officials. As
yet, however, he had escaped such a fate, and came to
“levy” on Uncle Joe, and his effects.
The worthy gentleman entered Joe Lacklitter's dwelling
with the intention of pursuing his customary programme
of proceeding—which was based upon the value
of his time, and the contemptible nature of the material
upon which he was to work.
If he was to levy upon a rebellious debtor, he would
flourish his stick; if upon a woman, he would prepare to
thrust her coarsely aside; while if children were in the
way, he would push them out of the way with his foot,
after the manner of pigs. Catching a glimpse of the
head of the sick man on the present occasion, before he
was aware of the presence of Mr. Sansoucy, who was
concealed by the opening door, he approached the bed
with the intention of dragging away the cover and forcing
the invalid to rise.
20. CHAPTER XX.
SUNSHINE COMES TO-MORROW.
Why should we describe the scene which followed, or
busy ourselves with the disagreeable personage who has
thrust himself upon our canvas?
As there are scenes of beauty and grandeur which no
art can adequately portray, so there are base and ignoble
incidents, from the too close contemplation of which the
mind comes away as though its garments had been soiled.
As there are characters in the world of such exalted
goodness and loveliness that we take off our hats in their
presence, and thankfully salute them, bowing to them as
our superiors, and carrying away with us a sentiment of
purity and love, which gilds existence, making the very
sunshine brighter,—as there are human faces more beautiful
and tender than the dreams of the old painters, with
rapt eyes fixed on the sky, and waiting for Madonna to
beam on them,—as the world holds these entrancing and
pure visions of an infinite loveliness and beauty, so does
it exhibit, in its other departments, characters and faces
which the lowest grovelling of the meanest and most
brutal fancy never could approach; beings which we
struggle in our hearts to look on as deformities of human
nature, poor and weak as it may be—which we turn from,
and do not wish to touch, and gladly see depart from us.
It is enough to say, that soon after entering the dwelling
of the sick man, the official left it with a scowl, which
would have done justice to a disarmed demon, from whose
hand a prize had just been snatched.
There was this observable about Mr. Sansoucy, that in
any contest he generally acted with a calm knowledge of
his position and his strength; and the interview which
we have refrained from describing, proved this. He was
well-known to the officer, he had assumed the debt—after
that, the presence of the official was an impertinence.
eye, but turning with his scowl of hate and anger as he
disappeared.
If we have not described this scene, we may also omit
any description of what followed. The sick man had
only breathed harder, and looked on in silence—Ellie
only sobbed and cried silently—Charley only gazed with
terror at the mysterious intruder. As for Ellie she had
not so much as brought her mind to comprehend that the
law, which called itself Justice and Mercy, would aid any
one in depriving her sick uncle of the bed he lay upon.
Joe could not find words to thank Mr. Sansoucy, which
was very fortunate, as that gentleman seemed determined
to accept none at all. He explained the cause of his
presence, and said that as he had promised Ellie to be
their friend, if they needed him, he would faithfully fulfil
his promise. He would see that a good doctor—his own
physician—came to see the invalid; and just as soon as
he was better, they should have a comfortable lodging
elsewhere.
Let us add here, that all that he promised, Mr. Sansoucy
faithfully performed. That in fifteen or twenty
days—thanks to the new physician—Uncle Joe was well
enough to be removed; and that he was removed—and
that new quarters were in the large, somewhat dilapidated
building of which Aunt Phillis occupied the
cellar. There, with the reader's permission, we shall in
due time rejoin them, and narrate what other adventures
befell our little friend Ellie, not forgetting the adventures
of her friends also.
But we go too fast, and have left Mr. Sansoucy a long
way from home on a very cold night.
It was not easy for him to leave that grateful family
whom he had made happy—whose darkness and despair
he had turned into life and hope. At last he rose, and
put on his hat.
“Good-bye, friends,” he said, with his cheerful voice:
“It will not be long before I see you again. Come! no
thanks for anything which I have done—good-bye, little
one—as we say in letters, “always your friend!”
And he smoothed Ellie's hair, and turned away. But
before he could draw it away, or resist, or move, Ellie
caught the hand, and pressed it to her lips, and bathed
it with her warm, glad, happy tears.
He drew back quickly, gently repulsed her, and went
out. Walking along the chill and frozen streets, he felt
a warmth within his heart which laughed at all the bitter
cold. If all who can would only try this heart-warmth!
And gazing on the tears remaining on his hand, he
thought if blood were there, the stain would disappear,
though “all the perfumes of Arabia” had failed to
“sweeten it.”
| Ellie, or, The human comedy | |