University of Virginia Library

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

me how I can forget my wretchedness, and put my trust
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

her lacerated heart like balm, her eyes filled with tears,
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,

and beautiful oil-cloth, and variegated lamp, pendent
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

have not thought of it. Come up to-morrow or next day,
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.