 | Ellie, or, The human comedy |  |
2. BOOK II.
1. CHAPTER I.
MUSINGS OF A JOURNALIST.
Since the scenes just described, in which we have
endeavoured to trace, step by step, the piteous struggles
of a child—a month very nearly has passed, and Mr.
Sansoucy sits in his chamber, adjoining that apartment
we have entered once with Ellie—sits smoking, dreaming,
and smiling.
We have scarcely outlined this gentleman: let us
endeavor now to do so.
Mr. Sansoucy, the son of a Virginia Huguenot, was a
man of twenty-five or thirty—and, with much character
and thought in his countenance, seemed yet to retain
in all their force, the youthful recollections and illusions
which not seldom cling to men until a later period of life
—after which they gradually fade. When we look at
him reclining in his arm-chair, and sighing and smiling,
the presence of these old illusions is very plain—and his
face is one which any physiognomist would set down as
that of a dreamer.
He has blue eyes, large and mild—his hair is short and
of a soft brown: his face handsome and striking. His
eyes are full of kindness and sincerity; and in them may
very easily be read the peculiarities of the journalist,
though scarcely his singular character. No one made a
more agreeable impression even upon utter strangers than
ordinary intercourse, that it is possible to imagine—his
face was the picture of kindness and cheerfulness, and it
was impossible to resist his smile or his address.
His countenance had that good humor which is better
than wit, and when his jests gave way to earnestness, “all
the world” listened, if they did not “wonder,” as Mr. Tennyson
says of them at Balaklava. Perhaps, however, the
greatest charm about this man was his careless conversations
with his bosom friends. Then it was that Mr. Sansoucy
appeared in the fullest strength of his singular and
almost eccentric genius. His monologue passed through
all gradations of humor and pathos, and the hearer went
away with the impression that he had been listening to the
wisest folly, the most laughing earnestness conceivable.
Shakespeare would have cultivated the acquaintance of
Sansoucy, and watched him with his great luminous eyes,
making a “study” of him, for a new drama; and Sansoucy,
we are very much afraid, would have candidly pointed out
the weaknesses in Hamlet, and gone to Eastcheap afterwards
with the bard to make the acquaintance of the Ancient
Pistol. The long leagues of travel had shown Sansoucy
human life in every form, and if he laughed at all,
as he often did, it was not an unkind or cynical laugh, but
came from a large heart full of sympathy, and that truest
humor, which is ever balanced between smiles and tears.
After this lengthy outline, we are almost afraid to undertake
our chronicle, quite confident that we cannot place
upon paper anything to justify our eulogy of this gentleman's
vivacity. But who could ever remember it, or explain
from which all the spirit has escaped—and grasping
at his humor, you caught it as readily as you would a
subtle and delicate perfume.
When we present Mr. Sansoucy to the reader, he is
seated, as we have said, in his chamber adjoining the editorial
sanctum. The chamber is as much littered up with
journals as the office—and the table is covered with MSS.
and supports a tall silver candle-stick, in which burns a
single candle. On the walls are numerous oil paintings,
and some portraits, and over the fire-place, in which burns
a cheerful fire, hangs in a rich antique frame, discolored
with the suns of many years, a pencil sketch, which the
journalist gazes at, pensively sighing, as he smokes his
long German pipe, and muses after the manner of great
smokers.
As he gazes, a strange, wistful smile comes to his face,
and he murmurs:
“Yes, yes, there is the light of my youth, the sunshine
of my boyhood, the future blessing of my life I used to think
when I was a juvenile—and where is now all this pretty
picture? Gone away, like all happy things on this earth!
What's the use of sighing! All things pass and the dead
day is always the brightest—especially to literary men.
They deify the past, because it rises for them clear and
brilliant, without any of the prosaic common-places which
make the present so repulsive. I suppose some of these
days I'll write a chivalric romance,” continued Sansoucy,
looking with his faint smile into the fire, “and all the
hoisted up on Brobdignagian stilts!”
Having delivered himself of this observation, Sansoucy
is silent, smiling.
“The fact is,” he continues, after indolently smoking
for some moments, “there's no such thing as interpreting
the past truly. We can't discern the real spirit—we miss
the actual splendor and fall short of it. They say that
every man is greater than his work—but that only proves
that his work is bad. Pshaw! I am moralizing!”
And Sansoucy smokes again.
“How they do try!” he goes on, after a while, and
smiling as he speaks. “There's one of the new litter of
books upon the table, written by somebody who has got
to dreaming about the past of the state of Virginia; and
he tells us how a young fellow, once upon a time, dressed
himself in velvet, ruffles, gold buttons, and so forth, and
`launched himself like a flash of lightning' somewhere—
which seems to me to be a dangerous proceeding. Good!
let him! There's something in the gold buttons; which
tailors, however, have ceased making use of—and if there
was not, throughout the book, a fixed disdain for Lindley
Murray, and the English grammar generally—which may
however be attributed to some hostile printer—one might
go to sleep over the tale quite comfortably. But the
writer has failed; he can't do it, sir!” says Sansoucy,
addressing his imaginary opponent, “that time remains
for the maestro, who will come some day, and then we 'll
have it.”
Sansoucy muses—smiling.
“What a pretty time it was!” he goes on, “rapiers,
ruffles, cocked hats, and high-heeled shoes;—cut, thrust,
or your humble servant!—and the ladies fair! Why can't
somebody go to that old mansion yonder, and catch its
atmosphere? What scenes we should live in again—illustrated
and adorned by all the beauty, grace and chivalry
of the elder time. Pay me, and I'll do it,” said Sansoucy,
laughing, “and I 'll review my story in the Mammoth, with
strict impartiality and fairness!”
Having addressed this offer to a circle of imaginary
book-publishers, Sansoucy pauses for a reply, and smokes,
smiling, as though Mr. Harper, or some other enterprising
gentleman had taken him at his word. A knock
resounds at the door of the outer room; and Sansoucy,
rousing himself, utters a sonorous “Come in!”
Steps are then heard, and a gentleman enters and passes
to the chamber, and gives Sansoucy a friendly and unceremonious
greeting.
2. CHAPTER II.
THE OLD ACTORS—WHERE ARE THEY?
The visitor is Mr. Incledon.
He is clad just as we have seen him upon former
occasion—with the same elegant simplicity; and his
countenance wears the same expression of grave dignity.
He presses Sansoucy's hand with friendly warmth, and sits
ceremony or stiffness.
“I'm glad to see you, Ralph,” says Sansoucy, “and
you look quite hearty.”
“I'm well enough, Ernest. I was passing, and thought
I would come in.”
“A most excellent thought, and most manfully carried
into execution. The individual who mounts those two
flights of stairs, must possess a warmth of friendship, and
a vigor of determination, sufficient to set up a Damon, or
rival Robert Bruce!”
Having uttered which “chaste and elegant” sentence,
as say the gentlemen of letters, Sansoucy, or Ernest, if the
reader pleases, smiled with his whole countenance, including
his eyes.
“Why, your stairs are not so high,” said Incledon.
“But steep—deep I may say.”
“So they are.”
“Almost as deep as my reveries when you entered.”
“What were you thinking about?” said his friend, in
his habitual tone of gravity and calmness, which never
seemed to amount to stateliness. “What a meditator
you are.”
“True, but I am studying.”
“What subject?”
“Human nature.”
“That is deeper than anything else I know of.”
“Yes—try a cigar—but I forgot, you never smoke,”
said Sansoucy. “Yes, I really think this subject is deep,
and I am rapidly coming to the conclusion of one of my
of human nature in this world—this `Pilgrim's Progress
of a mortal vale,' as Mrs. Gamp says, according to Mr.
Dickens, though not in near so elegant a way.”
“What a bitter book that is.”
“What? `Martin Chuzzlewit?”'
“Yes.”
“So it is; this hatred, almost, of America, is the only
blot I see upon the character of a man, who seems to me
the noblest genius of our age. What a beauty and glory
of pathos is there in Charles Dickens! All the world
cries and laughs with him, and Paul is the `little friend'
of everybody! That child walks hand in hand with
`Nell' through English literature, and so they will go on
forever—beautiful as pathos, and as dear as early love.”
“A great writer,” said Incledon.
“Yes,” said Sansoucy, “in his way, as others are great
in other ways. I bow to such men, and am glad to call
such maestro. They interpret the life of to-day, and this
will ever admit of clearer personation than historic life,
which makes it necessary for the artist to go back to the
period he chooses—leaving the present, wholly—and thus
throw himself heart and soul into the dead world of the
past.”
“I should consider it most difficult.”
“Yes, it must be. I scarcely ever dared to touch it,
though, as you know, I have written many tales for the
magazines—and money,” said Sansoucy, smiling.
“Oh, you slander yourself.”
“How?”
“By this imputation.”
“The money—?”
“Yes: you write, Ernest, from a true love of Art.
“Art!” cried Sansoucy: “what is Art, my dear fellow?
Will Art put money in your purse?”
“No, but fame in your life.”
“What is fame?” said Sansoucy, philosophically;
“stay, let me repeat you what Colonel Henry Esmond,
according to Mr. Thackeray, says of worldly honors—I
have it by heart, and nothing could be finer. `What,'
he says, `do these profit a year hence, when other names
sound louder than yours; when you lie hidden away
under ground, along with the idle titles engraven on your
coffin? But only true love lives after you—follows your
memory with secret blessings—or precedes you, and intercedes
for you. Non omnis moriar—if dying—I yet
live in a tender heart or two; nor am lost and hopeless
living, if a sainted departed soul still loves and prays for
me!' Could anything be truer or more beautiful?”
“Your criticism is just—the philosophy perfect, and
the passage exquisite. I am glad you do not care for
vulgar fame.”
“Care! I despise it most enthusiastically, my dear
friend, and that because it is cloying in possession, and
transitory in character.”
“Yes, yes.”
“What fame of general or statesman, unless it be the
perfume of noble deeds lingering still, is worth having?—
where is all the brilliant society which used to carry itself
crucible.”
“Why, you are in a profoundly philosophical mood,
Ernest; you are going to turn hermit.”
“Oh, no, I am too fond of my life; and some-day I
shall blaze out in an extraordinary way.”
“How?”
“Literary, of course. Authors are growing respectable,
and a literary friend of mine got a discount the
other day.”
Incledon smiled.
“True,” said his friend, lazily; “but it is proper to
say, our friend over there, the rich wig-maker, was on his
note. Between the beautifier of the head, internally and
externally, the Bank, you see, could not resist.”
“Pshaw, you are jesting. What new books?”
“A whole cartload. Our literature, I repeat, is becoming
respectable. I was reflecting, as you came in,
that, probably, we should, some day, have a school of
historical romance.”
“I am sure we shall.”
“Why should we not?”
“I see no reason.”
“The past is rich enough in contrasts, and, but now, it
occured to me, that it ought to be worked.”
“It will be, some day.”
“Assuredly,” said Sansoucy: “and I will cradle the
new-born babe in the white sheets of the “Weekly Mammoth.”
Tender nursling! he will need protection and
encouragement, thrown on the roaring surges of this
and write about the great, the magnificent things which
flooded the Revolutionary period with splendor. Even
the lesser details of manners are in admirable contrast
with the present, and are like so many blocks hewn out,
and waiting for the master-workman to raise to the pinnacle
of Art. We laugh at them, but that proves that
they entertain us;—and, when you came in, I was thinking
what a crowd of worthies, male and female, had
promenaded on that piazza, yonder, over the house-tops,
in the ridiculous, pompous old times. Just think what a
delighful set of folks they were. Gallant cavaliers in silk
stockings and ruffles, and knee-breeches and powder—
with lengthy waistcoats, and embroidered coats, assembled
over yonder to talk in their pompous grand old way,
which amuses me so much, that I positively like them,
thinking of them. They talked with ladies, observe mon
ami, not at all resembling the fair dames of to-day.'
“They were much the same in character.”
“Very true—but in costume?”
“Very different.”
“I should think so. Fancy our respected grandfathers
waltzing, or in the middle of a polka, with some of our
modern misses! Faith! the old gentleman would dash
his wig in words, if not in deed. They were different
then—the ladies fair; and it was these dames of old days
that the pompous old fogies, as we call them, talked to.
Fair dames they were, in powder—with white chins,
patch-covered—with short waisted dresses, bare arms,
covered with diamond bracelets, girdles of velvet, with
clattered as they walked!”
“You are studying costume,” said Incledon.
`I? not at all. But that is but a part of my erudition.
They flirted variegated fans, my dear fellow, and ogled
and murmured, and laughed and sighed;—enslaving the
gay gallants much after the fashion of their fair descendants
in the present day. That old house yonder, saw all
this gayety and laughter, these bright forms and brilliant
eyes—observe my own, I grow poetical!—which shine
still in the air, and make the spot fairy ground. You
can't go there, and stand upon that portico, without seeing
all the past rise up again, and glow with the splendor
which it has not left to us, except as a memory, something
`i' the air,' subtle and delicate, like some delicious
odor!”
“Why, you are enthusiastic.”
“I am growing poetical, as I told you.”
“And you cling to the past?”
“Why not? The gay throng of to-day has no longer
anything to attract those who are fond of dreams, as I
am—and that, because the past is alive again with all its
glittering figures and enchanting eyes, its musical voices
and gay laughter—the past, mon ami, illustrated by its
cavaliers and dames, who went away before the advent of
the Prosaic Age!”
Sansoucy paused and smoked, for his pipe had nearly
gone out in the mean time: and for some minutes he was
silent.
“Good,” he said, at last, with his old smile, “here I am
not? Why not amuse ourselves with a mind-picture of
those tender and gracious phantoms shining through the
mist; and take our hats off and salute them? Beautiful
and lovely dames! they say untruly that you are dead,
and only memories—forgotten music, silent laughter! I
hold that nothing is less true. You live to-day as you did
in the old days, with your gracious smiles, and liquid eyes,
and soft lips, quite expert to shape the compliments or satire
of the elder day! The flattering or dreadful speeches
which you made sound for us still—the speeches which
raised the gallant in knee-breeches to the empyrean, or
made his reflections suicidal. Yes, beautiful and fair
dames! you live to-day, and reach out tender arms towards
us, showering gracious smiles! Most respected of grandmothers,
you move visibly still, with the most venerated
of grandfathers; and the comedy of to-day is but that of
your age played over again with all its joys and griefs—
its sighs and laughter! The drama is the same—the
Human Comedy—but the old actors—where are they?”
“Plain enough in your `mind's eye,' as Hamlet says,”
replied Incledon, when this apostrophe of Sansoucy was
gone through with; “for my part I am very glad the past
is what it is—passed. I love it so much that I wish to
increase my affection by absence and separation.”
“Ah, my friend! you are not a poet! You are so unfortunate
as not to sleep in a garret and live on moonbeams;
how unhappy!”
And Sansoucy laughed.
“Come, Ernest,” said Incledon, “this is not honest in
you.”
“Honest?”
“Were you the dreamer you represent yourself, we
should not be such close friends.”
“Am I not?”
“No.”
“How am I not?”
“You are one of the most active men I ever knew.”
“Bah! I active?”
“Yes.”
“I'm a waiter for time and tide, a pococurante, an
eccentric.”
“You are also a teacher.”
“Eh?”
“Of children.”
“Oh, you mean the Ragged School?”
“Yes.”
“That's my amusement. I see life there.”
“How you cover up your good deeds!”
“Pshaw! What are you looking at?”
“At your picture,” said Incledon, whose eyes were
fixed upon the sketch above the mantel-piece.
“Ah! at my head!”
And a slight cloud seemed to pass over Sansoucy's forehead,
as a mist glides across the heavens in a morn of
May.
3. CHAPTER III.
HOW SANSOUCY RELATED A FAIRY TALE WITH REAL PERSONAGES,
FOR HIS FRIEND'S AMUSEMENT.
Sansoucy's face remained thus shadowed for a moment,
and his eyes seemed to wander far away to other scenes
of joy or of pain, of sorrow or of happiness—which, no
one could tell, for his brow was inscrutable.
Then sighing, he said, as his face cleared up again:
“Ah, my picture—you are looking at my picture?”
“Yes: you have often referred to it,” said Incledon,
with a slight smile, “and I think it is not a fancy piece.”
“No.”
And with the quickness habitual to him, Sansoucy
passed from smiles to thoughtfulness, from merriment to
sadness.
“Tell me who it is, Ernest!” said his friend, “it seems
to me I have seen the face before.”
“Perhaps—yes, who knows,” murmured Sansoucy
“Have I seen it?”
“It is not improbable.”
“It has a history?”
“Yes—a sort of history: for me. That, Ralph,” said
Sansoucy, with his old pensive smile, “is one of the ligaments
which bind me to the past. I often dream over
that face, and perhaps my lonely musings upon the original
have had more to do with my oddity, as you call it—
know of.”
“You speak in riddles.”
“I am a poor Sphynx—I am not stone!” he said,
sadly.
“Speak then without enigmas.”
Sansoucy passed his hand across his brow, and the sad,
wistful smile came to his countenance again.
“Well, I will,” he said.
“I listen”
“Will a fairy tale, with real personages, suit you?”
“Perhaps.”
“Listen then; but first take a look at the drawing, and
tell me what you think of it.”
Incledon obeyed, and after gazing for some time at the
picture, said:
“I have seldom seen a face of greater or fresher beauty.
The child must have been about twelve years old.”
“Only eleven!” murmured Sansoucy.
“Her hair was probably auburn—her eyes grey,” said
Incledon, smiling.
“No, no!—she had the most beautiful golden tresses,
and her eyes were as `azure as the heavens'—as Pope said
of Swift, you you know,” he murmured.
“Ah? she must have been beautiful. There is a frank
look of candor and innocence about it, like a French
study of La Salle's I have somewhere seen.”
“In fact, that was the distinguishing characteristic of
her countenance.”
“Well, now we have seen the portrait, let us have the
story.”
“The story?”
“Did you not promise a fairy tale, with real personages?”
“True, true! Listen, then.”
And Sansoucy smiled in his old sad, wistful way.
“There was once a country where the roses always
seemed to bloom,” he said, sighing, “where the winds
were always May-day breezes—where the streams ran far
more merrily than elsewhere—and where the birds sang
more sweetly than the nightingales of Cashmere. You
see, I commence in the Oriental fashion; but I shall go on
less poetically. Well, in this beautiful country, which you
may call, if you choose, the Virgin land, a boy was born,
and a girl—the boy was older. The name of the boy
was Ernest—the name of the girl, Aurelia.”
“Ernest!” said his friend smiling. “why that is your
name.”
“Yes.”
“A striking coincidence.”
“Yes, very striking.”
“Well.”
“Well,” continued Sansoucy, smiling dimly, “the boy
and the girl, it happened, lived very near each other—indeed
their fathers' houses were in sight of each other, and
they often wandered down to the clear stream which
separated the domains.”
“Yes.”
“The girl was a mere child, but very beautiful; and
of youth, that one day Ernest found that his poor heart
had gone from him and had come into possession of the
child who wandered with him. He did not realize this as
a thing familiar to the world—the old experience of all
since Adam—but regarded it as his own dear secret—
what the children of men had never felt before. He
cherished it in his heart of hearts as his boyhood's
treasure, and all his life was changed and glorified by it,
and he felt the throb which preludes the strong passion of
the full-grown man.”
“Who knows but his feeling was all the purer,” said
Incledon.
“Perhaps it was. In truth, no sentiment could have
been more innocent, and disinterested, and elevated, than
his love. In the child's presence he was happy; away
from her, life seemed nothing to him but a poor, sad
phantasmagoria, where no sun shone, no pure music filled
the air for him.
“Wandering along the banks of the brook, hand in
hand, they advanced not over material, gross earth, but on
a carpet, softer and more splendid than that fairy tissue
unrolled by Aladdin for his beloved princess. The landscape
was not ordinary meadow, hill and forest, but the
land of illusion and romance, with a boundless horizon of
verdure and delight.”
“He must have been in love.”
“He was; and when he took the child in his arms, to
carry her across the brook, or wove the pure, faint, wildflowers
into a crown for her, and placed it on her forehead,
those pure angels of our dreams, which never alight and
stay on earth.”
“Poor fellow!” said Incledon, smiling.
“Oh, no! not poor!—he was rich! Rich as the lord
of Potosi, or the fabulous splendors of the Caliphat! He
never lived when absent from her—in her presence all the
birds of spring seemed singing, and the world was dead
for him—she only in his existence!”
“What a strange feeling towards so mere a child!”
“He was but a child himself—but she was far beyond
her age. She was one of the most perfectly finished characters
I ever knew—”
“You knew her then!”
“Yes, yes!” said his friend, smiling, wistfully, “and
never have I seen such loveliness. She had the tenderest
and softest voice I have ever heard; and when she sang,
you paused to listen as to a bird of the tropics singing
from a land of unimagined beauty. I have seen a room
full of persons stop talking to listen to her; and the frank
kindness of the child's face made every one her friend who
knew her. She had the most perfect simplicity and gentleness;
and when she laughed you thought that she had
uttered the wittiest and most brilliant speech imaginable.
Poor Ernest!—what wonder that he loved his little
Aurelia! To know her was to love her; and her friendship
was a `liberal education.' See how I prose upon
the subject, wearying you with all this tirade. Well! the
day came at last, as it always comes to children, when the
them asunder.”
“They parted!”
“Yes; and their last interview was by the stream where
they had been so happy. Ernest drew well—and sitting
down, he outlined that picture, which he afterwards
filled up.”
“He gave it to you?”
“Perhaps!—the word that expresses the genius of
France—from which country my family originally came,
for we are Huguenots. Well, well; the boy placed the
picture on his heart, and for a moment he held to that
poor beating heart the tender form of one who cried and
shook, and would not part with him. Then he tore himself
away, and went to Bordeaux, and thence to Nantz,
visiting his numerous relations, who had never forgotten
their American branch. He returned in three or four
years, having travelled and `seen life'—poor life, which
was nothing to him, without a heart. He came back then,
and found the family had gone to another part of the
country. He went thither—and saw Aurelia, and was
met with cold embarrassment, as though memory to her
was only a regret. `From the double blow he did not
rise.' He returned home, and burying himself in his
chamber, reflected on the miserable texture of human
things, which made him thus a stranger to the only heart
he coveted, and which he thought was his own. She had
grown indifferent, he did not return, and so they remained
apart—but not wholly. She lived doubly—in his heart,
and yonder, before his eyes!”
Sansoucy smiled sadly, and pointed to the picture.
“You have related a very pretty little fairy tale for my
amusement—”
“A chapter of real life, which is quite as full of magic
as the Arabian Nights.”
“And I should return you my thanks,” added Incledon,
“What became of your friend Ernest?”
“He went away and became a poor journalist, and had
a friend named Incledon, who laughed at his romantic
folly.”
“That was very wrong in his friend. Now let us leave
these things of the past and return to real life. Do you
go to the ball to-night?”
“I don't know.”
“You know the scheme?”
“What?”
“That the dresses worn by the ladies are to be duly
given to the poor to-morrow.”
“Truly!”
“That is it.”
“I'm glad I'm not a paterfamilias, with a brace of
party-going daughters.”
“Oh, the dresses will be very plain.”
“Good.”
“And persons who would not go to these assemblies at
other times, will attend.”
“That is easily understood.”
“I, you know, have very little fancy for such things,
which are best avoided by professing Christians, though
there is no deadly sin involved.”
“Good! I agree with you.”
“You will go?”
“Why, yes; it will be a pretty spectacle.”
“I wish to introduce you to some lady friends.”
“Thanks—with pleasure!”
“Very well,” said Incledon, “the evening is drawing on,
and I must go and dress. Don't fail,” he said, rising, and
putting on his overcoat.
“Count upon me.”
“There will be a press; come early.”
“I am one of the press—I live in and by it. There,
my dear fellow, admire my brilliant witticism. You must
go? Well, good-bye for the present. I shall finish my
pipe!”
And they parted.
4. CHAPTER IV.
DOCTOR FOSSYL AND THE DANCE OF DEATH.
When Mr. Sansoucy entered the ball room; the company
had fully arrived; and with the philosophic interest
of a sight-seer, the journalist embraced at a glance, the
brilliant and imposing spectacle.
The ladies were clad in the plainest and most
comfortable dresses, but were decorated with their customary
“finery,” in the shape of pearl necklaces, and
diamond breastpins, and jewelled coronals. So striking
was the contrast between these decorations and their
remark, that they resembled, every one, a beautiful
beggar-maid newly adorned by King Cophetua, for
queen and mistress of the royal heart. “It is fortunate
that the present fashion is not like the old,” he muttered,
smiling: “and that makes it all the better.”
With which words, Mr. Sansoucy plunged into the
undulating and sparkling throng, exchanging jests and
compliments with everybody, with which personage he
seemed to be intimately acquainted.
Of course the novel idea so successfully put into practice,
was the almost universal topic of conversation; and
it is almost safe to say that every gentleman who made
new acquaintances on that evening, commenced the conversation
with some gay or solemn, brilliant or dull
observation on the subject.
Having heard the subject discussed some hundreds of
times, in making the circuit of the rooms, Mr. Sansoucy
conceived the eccentric fancy to be original, and abstain
from all allusion to the topic, unless it were introduced.
And this resolution he carried out in full by closing his eyes
to the novelty, and conversing upon every other subject.
Passing on thus, distributing smiles and jests, compliments
and laughter, the journalist finally stopped before
a man, who, leaning against the wall of the apartment, was
surveying the brilliant spectacle with a sardonic smile,
which made his face anything but pleasant to behold.
He was a man of sixty or sixty-five, of small stature,
and with a lofty and peaked forehead, around which a
few lingering gray hairs strove to meet and join their
skin the color of soiled parchment, and his lips, which
were a mere straight line in his furrowed countenance,
seemed habitually to wear the satirical and disdainful
smile which they now exhibited. He was dressed in
black from head to foot; wore black splatterdashes, which
were tightly buttoned around his spider-like legs, and
carried in his hand, as though to be consistent at all
points, an ebony snuff-box, from which he occasionally
helped himself to a pinch of snuff.
Sansoucy stopped in front of this man, and arresting
his wandering eye, said:
“How do you do, Doctor? You seem entertained.”
“I am,” said the Doctor, in a harsh and satirical
voice; I scarcely recollect when I have been so much
amused.”
“Amused! you! Why you are never amused.”
“I am, to-night.”
“How?”
“Looking at this fine spectacle.”
“I thought the great savant, Doctor Fossyl, found his
amusement elsewhere.”
“In sick chambers, hospitals and dissecting rooms,
eh?”
“Well, you are right. I did think your genius lay in
that direction, doctor.”
“Humph! I don't deny it, and still I enjoy this.”
“Come! the philosophy of your enjoyment, monsieur?”
“I am not a philosopher.”
“Well, you are the next remove—a physician.”
“I am, and in that capacity, I regard this fine assembly
as quite amusing. Look at the chandeliers—”
“Yes.”
“The laughing, sparkling, noisy crowd!”
“Very noisy.”
“Listen to the music,” continued Doctor Fossyl, with
his sardonic smile: “and mark the delight it gives!”
“Why, certainly—that is natural.”
“See that gay dance they are dancing yonder—look
at the bright faces, the moving forms, the sparkling eyes,
the rapid and excited motion.”
“I do.”
“It's a pretty dance of death, is it not?”
“A dance of death?”
“Come! do you pretend to be a scholar, and are yet
ignorant of the middle ages?”
“I don't pretend to be a scholar, but I have heard of
the dance of death. I only wish to know—”
“How this is such?”
“Yes.”
“You have only to look at that graceful skeleton,
yonder—waltzing.”
“Skeleton!”
“Yes,” said Doctor Fossyl, tapping his box, and
coolly taking snuff; “that gentleman has got heart-disease,
and in from ten to fifteen days from this time
he will be dead.”
“You are jesting.”
“Of course I am—I always am. Everything is a jest.
of that young lady there, with the japonica in her hair.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I shall be called in at half-past seven
o'clock to-morrow morning, before I have eaten a mouthful
of breakfast, to draw a gallon more or less of blood
from that handsome arm, which is now raising the nosegay
up so gracefully, and that life and death will wrestle
over her body.”
“Death, doctor?”
“Certainly. She has had the most dangerous type of
inflammation of the bronchial tubes and lungs, for three
weeks, and I told her this morning, that if she came here
to-night, she would be attacked by pneumonia. What do
you think she said, in her little, mincing voice?”
Sansoucy shook his head in silence, gazing sadly at the
young girl.
“She said,” continued Doctor Fossyl, smiling, satirically,
“that I was a monster, a bug-bear, a spoil-sport; and that
even medicine was not seldom mistaken. How could she
miss the charming, the delightful ball, for which she had an
engagement. She talked so prettily that her father was
convinced that I am an ignoramus—a raw head and bloody
bones:—and an hour ago, I passed her coming in, in her
satin slippers, over the snow. Poor thing! poor thing!”
muttered the sallow cynic, almost inaudibly: but this expression
soon disappeared and the former satirical smile
returned.
Sansoucy was silent, and sad, for he had found too often
erudition, and life-long experience, were too apt to turn
out truly.
“I have a few more friends here,” said the doctor, offering
the snuff-box, which Sansoucy refused, “and I shall
probably be very busy for the next few months. The
Dance of Death is not so disagreeable a thing to us physicians
as the world imagines. An admirable spectacle!”
cried the cynic, whose yellow teeth appeared as he spoke
between his thin lips, “hear the music—ta! ta! ta! ta!—
like your favorite opera of Lucretia Borgia, which I remember
hearing when I was young and in love—just before
I was attacked with the measles. Don't you remember
the scene? The last, I think it is. They are all
revelling, drinking their wine, cracking their jokes, making
the walls ring with laughter. Wit, and merriment, and
jollity are supreme. But comes the invisible chorus.
Listen! always nearer, while the merriment grows madder—
always louder, though they do not hear it, under the flaming
chandelier, and clashing together their wine cups.
Listen! it is there at the door—terrible and mournful and
despairing like a death-wail—and then the doors glide
open, and the white phantoms enter, and a cold arm passes
round each reveller, and they glide away to where the row
of coffins wait for them. A pretty opera, is it not?”
And the cynic pointed with his fleshless finger to the
crowd.
There was something so sinister and coldly contemptuous
in the accents of the strange physician—his livid countenance
was so expressive of scorn, and satire of the bitterest
the speaker, Mr. Sansoucy remained silent, involuntarily,
with his eyes fixed upon his companion.
5. CHAPTER V.
THE APPIAN WAY AND THE CATACOMBS.
But the emotion of the journalist soon passed: it is true
that he passed his handkerchief over his moist brows, but
that might very well have been caused by the heat of the
rooms.
“You have a terrible habit of analysis, doctor,” he said,
at length, “but you have also the fatal error in your calculation,
which puts all this in quite another light.”
“What error?”
“You regard life and happiness as the sworn foes of
pain and death.”
“Foes! are they not?”
“I don't know that I have put my idea in the right
words,” said Sansoucy, thoughtfully, “but it seems to me,
doctor, that there is something more—some greater happiness
than any earthly thing. If that be so, death is the
portal to the good and pure, by which they enter into this
larger happiness!”
For a moment the doctor looked at his companion with
a sort of disdainful surprise: then his former sardonic
smile returned.
“I thought you were a philosopher, and had rejected
these superstitions!” he said.
“Superstitions?”
“Yes—belief in another state of being.”
“Thank God I have done nothing of the sort. I am
neither an atheist, a pantheist, nor an infidel.”
“I am all three.”
“I am sorry,” said Sansoucy, coolly.
“Don't be sorry for me!” cried the physician, almost
scornfully, “be sorry for yourself—for the dominion which
this tradition still retains over your mind. It absolutely
makes me angry to see men of your intelligence taking up
with the miserable cant of the age, and rejecting those
noble lights of reason, Paine, Voltaire, Rousseau, and
Michelet.”
“I detect everywhere in Paine the poorest materialism,
and the narrowest range of thought,” said Sansoucy, bracing
himself for the struggle.
“Materialism!” said the physician, scornfully; “and
what of Voltaire?—perhaps you—”
“Do not admire that brilliant and wicked genius?
Well, no, doctor, I find in Voltaire, wit, political genius,
the revolt of intellect against feudality, and a heart like a
dry crucible. He was the type of the nation he has caricatured—half-tiger
and half-monkey.”
“And Rousseau—pray, what do you think of him?”
said Doctor Fossyl, curling his lip.
“I think he was a bad citizen and a depraved man,
who did not know his own obliquity of moral vision, and
thought the whole world squinted. As to Mr. Michelet,
DOCTOR FOSSYL DISCUSSES THE DANCE OF DEATH.
[Description: 506EAF. Illustration page. Illustration of a party scene with two women sitting on an ottoman and three men standing around them.]
pretty points in the Reign of Terror, and deifies the
philosophers of that corrupt age, I tell you frankly,
doctor, that his book makes me sick. He has refuted
his “French Revolution,” so often in his “History of
France,” that if his present philosophy were not repulsive,
it would be ludicrous.”
The doctor smiled disdainfully, and said; “Well, now
that you have got through your fine criticism, tell me
what more you have against these powerful geniuses than
your own ipse dixit—then we will weigh your respective
intellects.”
“I will submit to no such test. I reject it in
advance.”
“You reject it!”
“Always. I do not pretend to measure my intellect
against your friends, Rosseau and the rest—though I
could find in them the most lamentable discrepancies. I
reject absolutely, wholly, unhesitatingly, the philosophy
which submits these profoundly spiritual questions to the
test of a cold, unvarying, mathematical analysis. I refuse
to recognize the dry hard reason of the trained dialectician,
as the proper scales to weigh these matters of life
and death—of time and eternity.
But I still adore Him,'
`I feel this.' There is my platform, doctor. The poor
human reason faints before these problems, and the heart
speaks as God intended it should.”
The physician looked at Sansoucy as if he had uttered
a fatuity which reason should disdain to combat for a
moment.
“And so you believe there is divinity in the vital principle,
do you?” he sneered.
“Yes.”
“That with the severed head, the pierced heart, this
principle departs, and goes to a larger universe?”
“Yes, doctor.”
“Poor human nature! how pitiable!” said the physician,
half to himself; “here is a man who has a clear
and accurate mind, an apprehensiveness really remarkable,
and his intellect is shackled still by the poorest
superstition.”
“What did you say, doctor?”
“I say, I wish to know if you label this package of
ideas, Faith or Reason?”
“The former, I trust.”
“Faith?”
“Yes.”
“Faith in what?”
“In God, immortality,—the atonement of Jesus
Christ.”
“You! you have this last weakness! the atonement!”
“If it is a weakness, doctor, I wish to live and die in
my deception.”
“A pretty faith! Why don't you act up to it?”
“Because I am human, and consequently weak.”
“Bah! and I suppose if I asserted that all men were
gods—”
“I should say there was one exception—myself—a
worm with a spark of divinity within me:—a light-worm,
which has in itself what the whole earth has not, and
must take from the sun—light!”
“A pretty reasoner! Why not unite yourself to the
Church?”
“I hope I shall, some day.”
“You would make a fine and consistent member!”
“That is a bitter taunt, doctor, but a very just one.”
I am not taunting you: you are no Christian.”
“That is true, doctor. But as far as my historical
faith goes, it is strong and complete.”
“What is it?”
“It would take me a month to present it.”
“One point, then!” said Doctor Fossyl, satirically.
“Well, here is one. A man named Jesus Christ,
appeared in Judea, a province of the Roman Empire,
about eighteen hundred years ago, did he not?”
“Granted.”
“He was a pure man, was he not?”
“Who knows certainly anything about it?”
“I will tell you. Jefferson, the pupil of the French
sceptical philosophers, said he was the sublimest philosopher
who ever existed, and that men would finally rank
him above Socrates.”
“Well?”
“Jean Paul Richtei, the greatest and mightiest
development of German intellect—greater than Goethe,
I think—although he was an infidel, almost worshipped
as the supreme type of human greatness and goodness.”
“Very well.”
“Well, this man, who is acknowledged to have been the
purest and most truthful of men, went about saying that
he was the promised Messiah, that every one was looking
for—you cannot question the historical fact of this
expectation in Palestine then—and he further said, and
that repeatedly, that he was the Son of God, equal with
the Father.”
“Your conclusion?”
“It is this. That if this supreme type of human
truth and purity, systematically uttered a falsehood, then
earth and heaven are a gigantic delusion, and the universe
a lie. Nothing is true—and existence is a mockery, a
degraded farce. That is my conclusion.”
“What a pretty syllogism you make. I suppose you
will say next that the spread of Christianity proves its
divine origin.”
“I have no hesitation in saying so.”
“Bah! what do you do with Mahomet, the impostor
and false prophet. I believe he founded a somewhat similar
affair which lasts still.
“Yes; but, my dear doctor, you are arguing very
weakly for a man of your perspicuity.”
“Weakly!”
“Yes; and I have only to point you to the two systems
to show you as much. Mahomet, with the Koran in his
left hand and the scimetar in his right, said to his wild
hordes, `Go forth in my name and conquer. If you are
of the earth, subjugates nations, and makes you conquerors
and princes. If you fall, the word of God is pledged to
you in this book, that you shall go to a paradise of murmuring
streams and verdurous plains—to the embrace of
beautiful houris, fairer than your dreams, and all the
ecstacies of sense, sublimated and made supernaturally
susceptible of bliss by the pure atmosphere of this sunny
paradise.' I think that I should have been a Mahommedan—I
wonder that all men, with this splendid bourne
for their dim yearnings, are not.”
“You had better become one.”
“No; but let me finish. I say that this was Mahomet's
creed—these his promises. What were those of Christ?
He said, `They have persecuted me, and they will also
persecute you. The time is coming when whoever kills
you will think he is doing God service; in the world you
shall have tribulation; while the world is rejoicing you
shall weep and lament; you shall be persecuted, beaten,
despised; you shall suffer hunger and thirst, and poverty
and nakedness; the world shall be your enemy, and shall
place its heel upon you. Remember all this, and then sell
your goods, leave your father and mother, sister and
brother, and wife and child, and follow me!' There is
the Christian and the Mahommedan system. Judge if the
spread of Mahommedanism was not natural—the spread
of Christianity supernatural!”
“Have you finished?” said Doctor Fossyl, with a curling
lip, “or have you any more philosophic contrasts?”
“Contrasts!” said Sansoucy. “You want contrasts,
between Christian and anti-Christian deaths, and the epitaphs
upon their tombs. Would you see the pagan character
in a nut-shell? Go to the Appian Way at Rome—
that vast high-road of hewn stone, upon which the spoils
and captives of the world flowed into Rome, and her
legions thundered out—where the silken litters of courtezans
passed, on the backs of Nubian slaves—courtezans,
such as Messalina, the enchantress, Faustina, the Empress,
the sisters of the Emperor Commodus, and the most high-born
and beautiful daughters of Rome: the Appian Way,
where the witty and corrupt Horace waved his perfumed
hands, covered with rings; where the poor philosophies
of Greece were discussed by the glittering crowd of splendid
young patricians; where riotous pleasure reigned
supreme, the sole real god of that multitude, who, men
and women, given up to luxurious and sensual delights,
passed to and fro—a splendid and deplorable carnival—in
the eternal race for a new passion, an unknown excitement.
Cast your eyes upon this crowd, thronging the
Appian Way, and then pass across to the immense tombs
of Etruscan marble, where those who fainted in the carnival,
and were called away, laid down to rest—where the
millionaires of Rome cut their ostentation and their philosophy
in stone. Those tombs are there to-day—look at
the epitaphs. “To the shade of Claudius Secundus; on
earth he enjoyed everything—baths, wine and women: these
ruin the constitution, but they make life what it is. Farewell!”
Go a little further and you find another. “I came
from nothing—I return to what I was: my fortune will be
lived well: my play is ended, yours will soon be—farewell
and applaud!” There is the pagan life and death, doctor:
life a passionate carnival of fiery and corroding lusts
and passions; death a hopeless and shuddering relapse,
as they thought, into eternal annihilation; for that man
never lived who went, as he believed, into the dust, without
a shudder, though, like the old Greeks, he might crown
himself with flowers, and distort his lips into a smile.
Well, close by all this galvanic excitement, while this gay
crowd flowed on, living for sense, and reaping its reward
of splendid misery and despair—all this, while the dark
Catacombs beneath their feet were filled with the believers
in what Tacitus called a `pernicious superstition”—with
Christians—the followers of an old man called Paul, who,
in hunger and thirst, in spite of stonings and stripes, and
the threats of a thousand enemies, had preached, and now
preached to them, what you may call, if you choose,
another philosophy only: the philosophy that those who
listened to him, and the glittering crowd of Roman patricians—the
courtezan passing above in her litter, and the
child kneeling at his feet—the Jew and the Greek—the
slave and the freedman—the rich and the poor—were all
under a supreme curse, from which only faith in Jesus
called the Christ, and crucified at Jerusalem, could preserve
them. This was the philosophy taught by Paul to
a few miserable and hunted outcasts, who knelt around
him in the dark dungeon of the Catacombs, and sang
their hymns of joy, and faith, and hope. When the beloved
eyes of some little child were closed by its mother's
flight, what was the spectacle? What were the epitaphs
which these Christians of the Catacombs placed upon the
sacred graves, while the solid earth overhead shook with
the thunder of splendid chariots, and the desperate orgies
of that revelling multitude, hastening to death and, as
they vainly thought, extinction? You know those epitaphs
well—but listen; listen how like angel-voices! like
sweet benedictions!—“Valeria sleeps in peace!”—some
little child, perhaps,—a tender flower, which Jesus took
from its mother's bosom to his own. “Florentius peacefully!”
“Vigilantius sleeps in Christ!” Sleeps, it may
be, after a long life of toil, and suffering, and agony—
perhaps after fighting as a gladiator in the amphitheatre,
or struggling breast to breast with wild beasts, at the
festivals: all, the child, the gladiator, the apostle, `sleep in
Christ,' awaiting his glorious coming. These are the
pagan and the Christian systems, Doctor—the infidel and
the believer—their lives and deaths. For myself, no word
of yours is necessary to tell me that I am little better than
that crowd upon the street above—that I resemble in
nothing the company beneath them. I lament and deplore,
sir, the truth of the charge, and I will try to change.
But one poor merit I have—a naked belief; and so conclusive
is this conviction with me, that a doubt of the
divine origin of Christianity seems to me monstrous—I
must say it—and the man who conscientiously believes the
system only a fiction, appears to me blind to that extent,
that a million of dazzling suns would be but darkness
to him!”
Sansoucy paused, and looked thoughtfully at the crowd;
then interrupting the physician, who was about to utter
one of his disdainful replies, he said:
“This is a singular conversation for a ball-room, doctor,
farce as you considered it. I am not a proper preacher
of Christianity, and I deeply regret that my faith is only
a speculative and historical faith, which does not guide my
life, now let us change the subject and talk about something
else. How is Joe Lacklitter? You saw him?”
“Yes,” growled the doctor, who seemed to be utterly
careless about any reply in words to his opponent, “he is
better.”
“Get him up as soon as possible, my dear doctor.”
“Very good—but you pay?”
“Yes.”
“I can trust you without a written obligation,” he
muttered.
Sansoucy looked at him with a smile; and his countenance
thus returned to its habitual expression of careless
good humor.
“I am much obliged to you: I hope any one in the
room would.”
“Butterflies!”
“Just now they were skeletons! Ah, my dear doctor,
you make a double blunder. They are neither—they are
men and women with a thousand good and bad qualities
going through their Life-Drama. There is Incledon—I
promised to meet him—good bye.”
The physician uttered a surly growl; and Sansoucy
disappeared in the undulating and uproarious crowd.
6. CHAPTER VI.
PHILOSOPHY OF THE “DANCE.”
In a few moments, Sansoucy had joined Mr. Incledon,
who was conversing with some friends, and they exchanged
a smiling greeting.
“Well, here I am,” said Sansoucy, “in good health
and spirits.”
“You always are.”
“Nearly.”
“Are you prepared for the ordeal?”
“Your friends?”
“Yes.”
“I don't expect anything dreadful! Where are they?”
“In the next room.”
“Let us go there.”
They penetrated the crowd, and passing through, gained
the threshold of the next room.
“Here is a little dance going on,” said Sansoucy, “the
great spectacle of modern times—dancing.”
“Do you like it?”
“Do you mean waltzing?”
“If you choose.”
“Well, yes and no. I have no sister, or probably I
should have omitted the first part of my reply.”
“How carelessly you regard everything, Ernest.”
“Because everything is ridiculous—almost.”
“Somethings are serious.”
That is true.”
“And this abominable German usage we have imported—
the polka and the schottish too—seems to me just of that
description.”
“Ah? serious?
“Yes,” said Incledon, “is it not monstrous that a young
lady should stand here on this floor and permit a man—I
do not say a gentleman, for any one who procures an introduction
is insulted by a refusal—permit a man, a mere
stranger I say, to press her body to his own—his arm
around her waist—and this just in the fashion it may suit
him! Look at that couple whirling up to us! With the
merest motion of his head he might touch her lips with his
own—there they pass us! See her partner's arm! I am
not prudish, Sansoucy,” said Incledon, sternly, “but I
agree with a very bad authority, Lord Byron, that it is
revolting!”
“Revolting!”
“Yes: I know how ridiculous such `Puritanical' ideas
are thought — and that child yonder to whom I gave
sugar-plums last year, would twirl her fan, and look at me
with affected surprise if I would presume to say this dance
was objectionable. It is very outre, very prudish, very
severe, to find fault with the `harmless amusement' of
young people, I would be told, and then with a laugh, I
am dismissed.”
Sansoucy smiled, in his old way.
“What would you have, my dear friend?” he said, “we
must take the world as it is—Ca ira! What is the use of
being solemn? Those fascinating young ladies like to be
embraced in this pleasant way; and assuredly you would
pastime! If the present season clings to the waltz,
don't you know that they will all waltz? If next year it is
the fashion to embrace with both arms, can't you comprehend
that many will find the amusement still more piquant,
and obey implicitly the fashionable dictum? They like it,
my dear Incledon, and instead of arguing upon the subject
in a heated way, why look at it as I do, philosophically.
These charming damsels like to be embraced;—
ask Mr. Fantish, yonder, and he will tell you that as the
music grows faster, and the arm tighter, they absolutely
laugh out their delight—why quarrel, then? The waltz
and polka present an `eligible opportunity' for this warm
interchange of feeling, and they embrace—it.”
Incledon's face had assumed so cold and haughty an
expression at the name of Fantish, that Sansoucy gazed at
him with curious interest; but this expression of coldness
soon passed, and Incledon said,
“I am sorry your philosophy is so careless, Ernest.”
“Careless?”
“You assuredly are.”
“Not at all.”
“You defend waltzing.”
“Not in the least.”
“Why this very moment—”
“Come, now, you are going to arraign me. I don't
defend it, my dear friend. I only observe that I have no
female relatives present.”
Incledon nodded.
“I am a sphynx—I speak in riddles as you know. I
baggage here. If I had, I think I should issue my
orders—I beg pardon of the ladies—my requests—”
“Yes.”
“Not to waltz,” added Sansoucy. “I go with gentlemen
of Mr. Fantish's style upon that subject. When you
see the sister or cousin of a `fast man' waltzing, come
and tell me, and I will put it under the head of `notable
occurrences' in the Journal. No, my dear friend, I have
known some very eccentric gentlemen of fashion, and, but
for the fear of seeming harsh, I would say some very coarse
and disagreeable companions, but I have never known one
who liked his sister to waltz. Now we have been moralizing
enough, and I know I am telling you nothing new. Let
us get in. What a charming little Christian yonder.”
“Where?”
“Waltzing.”
“What a pity,” said Incledon.
“Pity? It's a shame!” said Sansoucy, but checking
himself, he added, “now I am growing moralist. Where
are your friends?”
“Over there,” said Incledon, gazing sadly at the excited
crowd, “let us get through.”
“That tall full lady?”
“Is one of them.”
“And the other.”
“There: come, let me introduce you.”
And Incledon smiled. As he did so, Sansoucy drew
back, almost blushing.
It was Aurelia.
7. CHAPTER VII.
HOW SANSOUCY WAS DEFEATED BY MR. HEARTSEASE.
Sansoucy's surprise lasted but for a moment, yielding
almost instantly to an expression of radiant delight. Advancing
quickly two steps, he imprisoned in his own both
hands of the young lady, and gazed with the ingenuous
smile of a boy into her blushing and smiling face.
Aurelia Ashton was a young girl of the freshest and
most delicate beauty, and the description of her appearance
as a child, might almost have suited her still. There
was the same kindness and sincerity in her countenance,
and the large blue eyes, and auburn hair, might have explained
the raptures of our friend; or at least caused them
to be regared with indulgence. There was one change,
however, and this soon made itself felt. Aurelia had grown
very gay, and a certain air of laughing stateliness still further
marked the changes her character had undergone.
Sansoucy found in place of a timid and affectionate
child, a lovely and brilliant young woman; and for a moment
a shadow of melancholy flitted across his brow. It
was not long before this disappeared, however, and the
happy smile came back in its full force.
“How glad I am to see you, Aurelia,” he said, still
holding her hand.
“And I to see you again, Mr. Sansoucy,” said Miss
Aurelia, ceasing to blush, and smiling.
“Mr. Sansoucy! Have we grown so formal?”
“What would you have me say?” she asked, releasing
her hand, with a smile.
“Call me by my old name,” he replied.
“How?”
“Ernest.”
The shadow of a little blush came again to Aurelia's
fresh face, and she replied:
“No, indeed, I will not, Monsieur, the travelled gentleman
and journalist.”
“Ah, you forget old times.”
“No.”
“When we were such friends.”
“Great friends. We were a great deal together when
we were children.”
“It was the happiest portion of my life.”
“Was it?”
“Yes, indeed!”
Aurelia made a little movement of her head, as much as
to say that this was a highly flattering and gratifying
announcement.
“Childhood is generally the most hopeful portion of
life,” she said, smiling.
Sansoucy looked sadly at her. Could she have meant
that any hopes he entertained were attributable to childish
mistake? This anxiety about the young girl's meaning
ought to have taught so acute a student of motive
causes as Mr. Sansoucy, that a highly inflammable
atmosphere existed in his heart, which was gradually
growing more and more so still.
“Let us speak like old friends, if nothing more,
is not proper in my mouth, I will change it. But do not
meet me as a stranger, whom it is necessary to address in
the stereotyped language of the ball room. Come, let us
talk frankly—we are old friends, are we not?”
“Oh, no doubt of it!” said Aurelia, laughing gaily
He sighed.
“Well, as we are friends, will you allow me to address
a reproach to you?”
“A dozen!”
He sighed again. It was plain that Miss Aurelia
Ashton was in excellent spirits.
“One will be enough—and it shall not be even a
reproach. When I returned from Europe, you met me
with constraint. Had I offended you?”
“Offended me? No, indeed!”
“Why then —?”
“Have answered you in monosyllables, and went out
while you were talking to my mother, and not returned—
do you mean, why did I perform all these naughty
things?”
“Yes,” he said, smiling.
“Because I was a school-girl,” she replied, with the
merriest laughter; “did you ever know one who did not
feel a terrible fear of being devoured by her visitors? I
was dreadfully afraid of you.”
“Is that a fair explanation?”
“As fair and honest—indeed it is—as anything I
could possibly say. Indeed you must pardon the
abashed in `company.”'
And with a smile and a sigh, Miss Aurelia gazed
frankly and kindly at her companion.
“Oh! that convinces me without another word, that
you are not jesting—your bright smile! How much you
are like yourself in old times, when you smile!”
“Am I?” she said, with another smile, full of softness
and sweetness.
“Yes, and I would have you always smiling. Tell me
when you reached town, and everything.”
“Everything is too comprehensive. But I have been
here a week.”
“A week!”
“Are you surprised?”
“Yes. It seems to me that there must have been
something in the atmosphere to indicate your presence—
see how poorly I turn my poor compliment.”
“Oh, how nice it is! I see the reports I have heard
of you are quite true.”
“What reports?”
“That you have become a terrible flatterer, and that
you boast of being able to win any woman's heart in six
weeks!”
“Who could have uttered such folly—or attributed to
me so silly a speech?” said Sansoucy.
“I shall not tell you, sir,” said Aurelia, laughing.
“Very well—but I never was guilty of the folly of
uttering it.”
Aurelia seemed to question the sincerity of Mr. Sansoucy
saying:
“I was about to tell you that I have come to visit
cousin James—Mr. Ashton, you know. I shall certainly
expect you to call on me.”
“You will not be disappointed.”
“Are you sure you will not?”
“I?”
“I mean in me: you know I can't talk literature or
politics with your lordship.”
“Ah, you laugh at me! Do not be so unfriendly,
Aurelia—excuse me. We're old associations and habits!
Let us be, if not Ernest and Aurelia on the banks of the
old stream, at least not so indifferent.”
The warm blush which covered her face showed that
the old days had rushed to her memory in a moment.
“I hope we shall always be friends,” she said, laughing
and blushing, and looking more beautiful than his dreams
of her; “`in peace, friends,' you know.”
“Peace—?”
“Yes, we may declare war: I am growing very
unamiable.”
“Impossible! your sweetness of nature was your
greatest charm,” he said, sincerely and seriously.
“Thank you, sir! Then I had no others?”
“Many,” said Sansoucy, sighing at being repulsed
thus by Miss Aurelia's gayety, in every advance he made
toward the out-posts of tenderness. As he spoke the
young girl inclined her head to a gentleman who was
Mr. Heartsease.”
“I trust my bow was a la mode, Miss Ashton,” lisped
a mild and languid voice. “Ah! how are you, Sansoucy,
my dear boy? charmed to see you!”
With which words Mr. Heartsease advanced into the
conversation. Who shall undertake to describe Heartsease,
the beau, Heartsease, the fop, Heartsease, the most
serious of butterflies, and the king of Epicurean philosophers!
Even his costume defies description. We may
say, indeed, that he wore the tightest of pantaloons, the
largest coat cuffs, the smallest patent-leather boots, and
the most enormous “tie:” but these things scarcely convey
any idea of Heartsease, that prince of pococurantes.
Words faint and fail before him, and from his dark
ambrosial hair an influence radiates, which paralyzes the
pen of the historian. When he glances at you with his
mild dark eyes, from his great height—for he is very tall
—you feel that not the hair and “tie,” and coat and
boots, and watch-chain, full of charms, are Heartsease.
There is behind this the real man, and he strolls still
through ball rooms, a mystery, a myth, almost a superstition.
Heartsease is always smiling, and languid without weakness—and
lisps. He says, now:
“What a charming spectacle, Miss Ashton. Would
any one believe that these were our finest girls. 'Pon my
word, they look like peasant girls in the operas.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Those beautiful little dames—they always put me in a
good humor. I admire them so.”
“That is a very adroit addition to your former speech,
Mr. Heartsease.”
“Is n't it? I was admiring my own tact in producing
it at so short a notice.”
Everybody ended by laughing at Heartsease, and this
ceremony was now performed by Miss Aurelia very
heartily.
“You are to give the dresses to the poor, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I like the poor.”
“Do you?”
“Yes, very much.”
“Have you seen much of them?”
“Oh, yes—a great deal. In—a—novels.”
“Oh! not in reality?”
“I have never met any—out of novels.”
Having uttered this reply, Mr. Heartsease paused.
I know some in real life, Heartsease,” said Sansoucy,
smiling, “and I am going to make a request of our friend,
Miss Ashton.”
“Oh! what is it?” said Aurelia.
“That you will give your dress to a little protegè of
mine.”
“Indeed I will!”
“Thanks.”
“I forgot to ask—is it a girl? I hope so!”
“Scarcely a boy,” said Sansoucy, smiling.
“A boy!” said Heartsease, bowing approvingly, “a
boy!—not bad!—ha, ha!—very good!”
And having uttered this mild laugh, Heartsease played
with his “charms,” and gazed gravely at the crowd.
“I meant a grown woman,” Aurelia explained, with a
smile. “I like little girls best.”
“This is a little girl.”
“I am very glad,” said Aurelia, “will you please tell
her to come to cousin's and get it.”
“To-morrow morning, faithfully. And now, this little
piece of business being ended, come let us—”
“'Have the pleasure of dancing this cotillion, Miss Ashton?”
said Heartsease, interposing his head, with a gentle
smile.
Never had Mr. Sansoucy been so completely defeated
by the hostile fates. The words were actually “taken out
of his mouth,” to use the common saying; and Aurelia,
after a moment's hesitation, glided away.
Sansoucy watched her graceful form gliding through the
set, and seemed exceedingly dull to the elderly lady who
had come with Aurelia, and who had been conversing with
Mr. Incledon. As this lady is not to be a character of
our chronicle, we do not enter further on her feelings or
opinions. Sansoucy once or twice took his eyes from
Aurelia, to gaze with astonishment upon Incledon.
Why did his friend's brow cloud, and, in spite of the
most terrible efforts, his dark eyes flash with haughty fire?
Could the simple fact of his cousin Silvia's waltzing
with Mr. Fantish, cause this extreme exhibition of emotion?
Sansoucy gave the question up in despair, and returned
synonyme—Aurelia.
Mr. Heartsease seemed so much pleased with Miss
Aurelia's society, that he remained with her nearly the
whole of the evening. When Heartsease made the effort
he was very entertaining; and Aurelia seemed to enjoy
his society very much.
Mr. Sansoucy retired on that night with a variety of
feelings—and in his dreams he thought he saw Aurelia
open her arms toward him with an angelic look of tenderness
and goodness, like the picture, when suddenly a
gigantic butterfly swept up and bore her away between
his wings. To the reader such a fear seems wholly
groundless and superfluous under the circumstances. But
there was a circumstance which not even Mr. Sansoucy
knew—he was in love.
6. CHAPTER VI.
HEARTSEASE CRITICISES MISS GOSYP AND THE BANKS.
With the bright morning sunlight shining on the snow,
all Mr. Sansoucy's fears, however, passed away, and he
laughed heartily as he tied his cravat at the mirror,
reflecting upon his dream and his jealousy.
“The truth is,” he muttered, with his careless smile,
“that I am by no means free from danger in that quarter;
and this proves it. What a strange influence these childish
sentiments retain over a man, and how difficult it is to
moved by it. As to Heartsease, let him be my rival in a
game which I have no idea of playing. I suppose I shall
go to see her, and we shall drive out together, and go to
the opera, and laugh and talk about old times, and be
`given to each other' duly by the world. Then some day
a little white enameled missive will be handed to me, and
I 'll read that Mrs. Ashton will be pleased to see me on
Thursday next, which invitation will be duly endorsed by
Miss Aurelia, and Mr. Heartsease, or some other. And
I 'll go, and smile, and jest, and find my `illusion' lighter
than the bride's white veil of that material, and come back,
and smoke, and work, and dream, and go my ways. So
wags the world!”
Having taken this highly philosophical and cheerful
view of things, Sansoucy finished his toilette, and went to
breakfast; and returning, set to work.
His article on the marriage of the emperor filled six
yellow slips, and blazed all over with the utmost gaiety
of humor. It was read next day with laughter by ten
thousand persons—after which it lit a number of cigars,
and passed away.
As Sansoucy finished the last line, a knock was heard,
and obedient to permission, a young being with a smutty
face came in, and uttered the words, “Copy, sir?”
“Who are you?” said Sansoucy.
“I'm the new boy, sir.”
“Ah, indeed?”
“Yes, sir. I bin runnin' errants—”
“Knight errands, perhaps?”
“No, sir; by day, sir: I greased the wheels and done
a heap o' things, and so they made me a devil, sir.”
“That was very just and proper,” said Sansoucy, “and
I congratulate you on your good fortune. There's the
copy.”
And so the young promoted went away.
Sansoucy lay back in his chair, and gazed at the snowy
roofs opposite, on which the cold, bright light was shining—
vainly attempting to make some impression on the frozen
crust.
“The fact is—” said the philosopher: but what the fact
was, remains to this day a profound mystery. As he spoke,
another step was heard ascending the stairs, and Mr. Sansoucy's
thoughts were diverted from Aurelia, by the
entrance of no less a personage than Mr. Heartsease!
Heartsease was in all the glory of his morning toilette—
his overcoat sleeves were heavy with velvet; his yellow
gloves were supernaturally tight; his cravat extended its
fringed bows to his shoulders on either side.
Heartsease was smiling and gay — he always was.
When he spoke, his drawl was more smiling than ever—
when he sat down, his shining boot was gaily extended
straight in front with graceful ease.
“Charmed to see you, my dear Sansoucy!” said Heartsease,
“how goes it, this fine morning, after the ball? But
I needn't ask you—you are as bright as a lark.”
“We young fellows, you know, Heartsease, always are,”
said Sansoucy, “come, what news?”
“Absolutely none. But do you know I begin to feel
deuced old?”
“No.”
“Fact: and during my tour, things seem to have
changed. But I am consoled at finding that everything
has greatly improved by my absence—of course I mean
during my absence.”
“Of course.”
“What a handsome ball, last night: I regretted, however,
seeing no new modes in the dresses. I'm glad we
went in our own—I like the new fashions—pantaloons
tighter—it shows the leg, you know.”
“Certainly,” said Sansoucy, leaning back, and surveying
the Heartsease legs, with deep admiration.
“In fact,” continued that gentleman, smiling, and
drawling, “we are a progressive nation. We carry to their
utmost possible development, all the novel ideas and sentiments,
which spring from an expanded and comprehensive
view of the reciprocal relations existing between men
and things! That's a fine sentence—I was struck with it
this morning, in reading the Palladium of Liberty, and
got it by heart.”
“It is equal to Macaulay—almost,” said Sansoucy,
smiling.
“Yes,” replied Heartsease, twirling his cane, “and I
regard the ball last night as a proof of it.”
“How so, my dear philosopher?” asked Mr. Sansoucy.
“Why, the girls.”
“The girls?”
“I mean their dresses.”
“What of their dresses?”
“So `finely demonstrative,' as I heard a friend say the
and more communicative.”'
“Bah! he's a cynic!”
“So he is.”
“To quarrel with a young lady for showing her
shoulders.”
“Abominable!”
“It would be as unreasonable for a man to find fault
with a girl for being `fast,”' said Sansoucy.
“Certainly, my dear Sansoucy; and that would be
ridiculous. Our two belles from—where are they from—
what state?—I don't know: but our belles last night
showed how ridiculous such criticisms are. I don't know
which was the fastest, but I rather think the maiden with
the japonica in her hair outstripped the other.”
And Heartsease gently smiled.
“Bah!” cried Sansoucy, “what an improper speech;
and the worst of it is that such speeches are constantly
made without young ladies knowing it. Besides it's not
original.”
“Not original?” said Heartsease, with an innocent air.
“No: it's in the Journal of last week.”
“Well, it's good: but we are getting away from the
ball.”
“So we are.”
“You enjoyed yourself?”
“Yes, my dear Sansoucy, I always do for that matter.
My friends were as kind as any reasonable man could possibly
desire.”
“Were they?”
“Quite: and I was overwhelmed with congratulations
on my safe return. There was one thing, however, which
gravelled me.”
“And that?”
“That was the attack made upon me, by Miss Gosyp.
You know the antediluvian, Miss Gosyp? She actually
introduced herself to me, winter before last, by an unfavorable
commentary on my shirt studs. She assailed me
again, last night, with a criticism of my waistcoat.”
“What was the result?”
“Why, there is an end to human patience, like all other
things of this world, as I have somewhere seen it
remarked. And yet, will you believe me, my dear fellow,
I was paralyzed by that abominable woman—driven to
frenzy, and loss of temper. All I could do was to smile,
and ask her if a young lady, who came with her, was her
neice—and so we parted.”
“What a terrible and heartless attack, Heartsease!”
“Wasn't it? But revenge is fair. What do you think
she said to me last winter?”
“I can't guess.”
“Why, she squeezed my hand, in a friendly way, and
whispered, `You are the hope of America—”'
“You don't quarrel with that?”
“Listen—she added with an affectionate and winning
smile—`the hope against hope.' And then she nodded
and left me. It made me melancholy for a week, and I
have only regained my spirits since I have got revenge!”
Sansoucy applauded this happy consummation, and
said:
“All your friends, however, are not so severe?”
“Oh, no!—almost everybody has been pleased to see
me—particularly fellows I owe money to.”
“Ah?”
“Yes: and I now perceive the truth of a remark made
lately by a friend of mine—that nobody takes any interest
in a man who don't owe money. I remember when my
governor took me to the watering places, a long while
ago—when I was a young fellow—that scarcely anybody
took the trouble to enquire how I had been, on my
return. Now it is different, my dear fellow—the solicitude
about my welfare is most flattering. I met my coat-artist
the other day, and he was quite warm in his
congratulations, enquiring, as we walked on, about all
the fashions I had seen, and, as I owe him a pretty little
amount, he seemed rejoiced to see me. The fact is, my
dear boy, if you owe money, you are a gentleman, and a
man of consequence—the more you owe the better, for all
the more interest is taken in your welfare. I know that
my aforesaid coat-artist, and the rest of my friends, are
glad to find me back again, looking well and hearty;
they like to see me smiling, and well-dressed, promenading
in the afternoon, and are anxious to keep up friendly
relations with me.”
“Nothing could be more philosophical,” said Sansoucy.
“I think so,” continued Heartsease; “now if I looked
seedy, and had a long face, they would regret it, and call
on me to inquire about my health—possibly just recollecting
their little bill, and bringing it along to save the
trouble of another call. This would distress them, and,
pleased with myself, and everybody: and take pleasure
in waving their hands to me as I stroll along in my new
coat sent home on Saturday. If they miss me in my
accustomed walk, they are grieved, and institute enquiries
as to my whereabouts. If I leave town, they are more
interested still, and express sincere anxiety lest I should
grow pleased with some other place of residence, and not
return. When I reappear, they meet me with smiles and
congratulations, as I have said—and all this good feeling
and popularity, I attribute to the interest taken in me as
a money-owing man. I do, indeed!”
And Mr. Heartsease contemplated the end of a cigar
he had lit, with smiling interest.
“You reason like a philosopher, Heartsease,” said Mr.
Sansoucy: “and I bow to your views. There is only
one objection that I see to your philosophy.”
“What is that?”
“Your coat-artist may be poor.”
“Poor?”
“Yes: and his children may rely for bread upon their
father's labor.”
“His children?—ah—yes.”
“And the money-owing general favorite may be the
cause of their having none of this necessary of life.”
“Why, that is true—strange it never occured to me,”
said Mr. Heartsease, reflecting, with much interest, upon
the new view thus presented to him.
“Therefore,” said Sansoucy: “it seems to me better
existence—”
“It certainly is, my boy.”
“Why, choose your creditors from other walks. If
absolutely essential to existence, get the money, and make
the Banks come to your relief.”
“The Banks?”
“Certainly.”
“That reminds me that I couldn't get a discount yesterday.
There is that collection of pictures going at an
awful sacrifice, and that institution yonder, positively
refused to let me have some money, though I took the
pains to explain my situation to the president.”
“Absolutely heartless!”
“Wasn't it?”
“What will you do?”
“Why, go to my friends, the Jews. I have set my
heart especially upon a portrait of Count D'Orsay, and a
Psyche, which I am going to present to that charming
Miss Ashton.”
“Oh, indeed!”
“Is n't she exquisite?”
“Very.”
“Do you know, my dear fellow, I half think of paying
my addresses in that quarter. I have had some encouragement.”
“What! encouragement?”
“You seem surprised, but why should you be? Answer
me candidly, my dear boy; am I a monster?”
Mr. Heartsease accompanied this question by a caressing
and complacent in its way, that Sansoucy began to laugh.
“You are a perfect star of fashion, my dear Heartsease,”
he said, “and doubtless you might have good fortune; why
not try? Miss Ashton is a prize worth having—and that
reminds me that I engaged to send somebody to her this
morning. Will you stay and smoke? I must set about
my engagement.”
And Sansoucy, suddenly thinking of Ellie and his
promise, rose.
“No, I have an engagement too, my boy. Come, and
see me: What! so busy that you can't?”
“I am up to my eyes.”
“Well, let us trust to luck. I shall go up and see Miss
Ashton—ta la!”
And Heartsease kissed his fingers, and strolled out and
down the street.
“There goes the most perfect butterfly of our times,”
said Sansoucy, smiling, as he donned his overcoat, “a
man who believes life was made to trifle in—time made
to be `killed,'—and everything else to be laughed at. I
am a careless man, but I should shudder did I believe my
character was growing into such a mould. Life is a
battle-field, not a flower-garden. Let me go now and
forget Monsieur Heartsease, in the presence of my valiant
little `soldier and servant.”'
And putting on his gloves, the journalist went out and
descended the stairs, and issued forth into the cold, bleak,
brilliant streets, which glittered as though decorated with
a thousand icicles.
9. CHAPTER IX.
CONTAINS A CHARCOAL SKETCH OF CAPTAIN TARNISH.
A French proverb avers, that although a man may
know the exact time he sets out, he cannot know when he
will arrive. Mr. Sansoucy found this true, and we shall
proceed to show in what manner. This will involve a
brief and hasty sketch of a new figure, in addition to
those which already occupy our canvas; and scarcely one
which is calculated to improve and exalt our opinion of
humanity. But why should our attention be confined to
the beautiful flowers, and the noble and straight trees, to
the exclusion of the weeds and stunted undergrowth? All
is human, and why not look at them, and weigh them?
The best man has something in his nature which would be
apt not to please himself or his acquaintances, if it were
laid open to the light; and the worst characters have
doubtless tender points, where the sting of conscience still
penetrates, making them human.
Captain Tarnish, who met and stopped to talk with
Mr. Sansoucy, was a gentleman of unprepossessing
appearance, though, undoubtedly, what is called by ladies
a “fine looking man.” He had the longest and handsomest
black moustache which any gentleman “about
town” could boast, he swaggered when he walked, and
wore a bran new suit, decidedly military in its cut and
buttons. He carried a gold-headed cane, and his rich
waistcoat resembled an emerald lawn, across which a
stream of gold meanders—this comparison being suggested
chain. The Captain wore further, a hat which fairly
dazzled the eyes, it was so glossy; and his somewhat
large hands were decorated with numerous rings, which
probably made his purple kid gloves a misery to put on
or off. He had served formerly in the army, and “when
I was in the service” generally preceded his narratives of
gay adventures in foreign capitals, and under other skies.
He had broken many hearts in those places, and had evidently
been a very dangerous character to the fair sex.
Husbands, indeed, had frequently fallen victims to his
prowess, and with the code of honor he was so familiar,
that his authority was supreme with all young gentlemen
who paid allegiance to that gentlemanly and respectable
tradition. The Captain was accustomed, indeed, to speak
carelessly and incidentally of “my pistols,” and to make
the duels of the day his prominent subject of discourse.
You experienced a sensation of respectful admiration as
you listened to his views upon these topics; and were
generally impressed with the idea that Captain Tarnish
was a dangerous fellow at ten paces—which might possibly
have been the precise opinion intended to be produced
by the Captain. Add to this, that Captain Tarnish
frequented billiard rooms, the shooting gallery—before
which he stopped Sansoucy—and a number of saloons
where stimulating drinks were vended, and our sketch is
quite complete enough for all our purposes.
“Why, where the devil are you driving so, Mr. Sansoucy?”
said the Captain, with a genteel carelessness;
“saw you at the ball last night.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“It was very handsome.
“So it was, only I didn't see many of my friends
there.”
“No?” said Sansoucy, laughing; “is it possible?”
“I did not, and it is possible,” said Captain Tarnish,
with a side-look at Sansoucy; for it was the impression
of this gentleman that everybody was hostile to him.
“That's a very unfortunate circumstance,” said Sansoucy;
“one don't enjoy himself when he knows nobody.
But you mean among the ladies?”
“Yes, sir. Among the men I knew a plenty of
fellows.”
“Ah! Captain! permit me to express the opinion that
perhaps you are only half-mistaken in your views. The
ladies knew you, whether you knew them or not—why
that mustache of yours is `killing.”'
“I flatter myself it's not bad,” said the Captain, looking
dignified.
“Bad! I should say not! It is splendid—only it's
dyed, you know,” said Sansoucy, laughing.
“Dyed!”
“Certainly it is.”
The Captain assumed a terrific frown, and said
sternly:
“Mr. Sansoucy!”
“Eh?”
And Sansoucy contemplated the Captain's countenance
with smiling curiosity and interest.
“I mean to assert, sir, that my mustache is not dyed.
I am surprised at such an assertion on your part, sir.”
“No? Are you really? But then, you know, you
must have dyed it some time since, for it was brown—ha!
ha! Well now, my dear Captain, as we have dismissed
this subject of the mustache, let us talk of more important
things, or rather, don't let us talk at all, for I must get
on”
“Mr. Sansoucy!” said Captain Tarnish, with an
ominous frown: “do you shoot?”
“Shoot? Shoot what? Folly as it flies? Certainly,
my dear Captain.”
“I mean pistols, sir!”
“Why, certainly,” said Sansoucy, smiling. “Have
you never seen me at the gallery, there?”
“No, sir!”
“Possible?”
“No, sir: and if perfectly agreeable to yourself—good
morning, Fantish! This gentleman and myself are talking
about shooting.”
“Ah?” said Mr. Fantish, who had come up behind
Sansoucy, and now interchanged a distant greeting with
that gentleman; “and what is the point at issue?”
“Our respective skill?”
“Does Mr. Sansoucy know,” said Mr. Fantish, in his
satirical and sneering voice: “that you are the king of
fencers and marksmen, my dear Captain. He shows a
great deal of courage by calling your skill in question.”
“I do not boast,” said Captain Tarnish, arrogantly.
“Oh, no,” said Sansoucy, magnanimously.
“But I believe it is conceded in the city of New
Orleans, sir, that I was more than a match for Labordere,
the French marksman. A little affair grew out of
it, and he received a ball through his shoulder for his
pains.”
“A duel?” said Sansoucy, with lively interest
“Yes, sir! a duel: and it was not my first affair. I
hold myself at all times responsible,” said Captain Tarnish,
grandly: “and consider myself entitled to the privilege
of holding others. I shot Labordere, as I said, sir,
and I mentioned this slight incident to remark, that I told
him beforehand I should strike him in that exact spot, in
the joint of the shoulder, between the bones. When the
ball was extracted, half was found flattened on one bone,
and half on the other!”
“I hope his arm was saved,” said Sansoucy.
“No, it was not, sir; it was amputated and lost.
“The thing was kind in you.”
“Kind!”
“Yes, my dear captain—you know you might have
taken his life.”
“I might, sir—as I did that of Señor Bocca, in
Naples.”
“I have never heard that particular story, Captain.”
“Do you desire to, sir?”
“Well, I have no objection—”
“Señor Bocca insulted me one evening in a cafè—”
“You forget, it was in Paris.”
“No, sir, in Naples.”
“Good: go on: I thought from the word cafè—”
“Well, sir, if I am permitted to proceed—I was insulted
by Bocca in a cafe. He said in the Italian lauguage that
my coat was too long in the skirt—this to a friend. I
challenged him, and killed him!”
“Is it possible!”
“Yes, sir—it is. He sent a private agent to me, and
offered me one-half of his magnificent fortune, and his
daughter Julia, in marriage, if I would sign a paper, and
publish it, declaring that the quarrel was amicably adjusted,
and in a manner highly honorable to himself.”
“You refused—?”
“Yes, sir! He brought his daughter with him finally,
and they both fell upon their knees, and besought me to
have mercy.”
“And you were unmoved?”
“I was: my honor was involved; and, though the
Senorita Julia was the picture of the Venus de Medici, I
was unmoved. I had my duty to perform, and I performed
it. I insisted on my rights, and I met the man
who had assaulted my honor, on the next morning, and I
shot him, sir!”
Sansoucy regarded the captain with a species of respectful
admiration, and said:
“Did you ever meet any of the poor fellow's relations in
your Spanish travels, captain?”
“His relations!”
“You said Señor, and I naturally supposed that he was
Spanish. Signor, you know, would have been his designation
in Italy.”
Captain Tarnish frowned, and stroked his mustache
with a menacing air.
“Señor, or Signor, I shot him at ten paces, sir!” he
said, “and I am not out of practice!”
“No?”
“I am not, sir!”
“But at ten paces,” said Sansoucy, “you know it is so
easy.”
“Easy!—to do what, sir?”
“To strike so large an object as a man.”
“Easy, sir!” repeated the captain, with threatening
emphasis.
“Why, certainly!”
“Can you, sir—?”
“Strike you at ten paces? Yes,” said Sansoucy, with
an engaging smile, “your watch-chain alone, captain,
would make it easy for a child to strike you.”
Captain Tarnish was so astounded, or pretended to be
so astounded, by this observation, that he made not the
least reply.
“I could easily prove to you, that I am not boasting,
my dear captain,” said Sansoucy, “but where would be
the advantage? It would only mortify you to show you
that I am a much better shot than you—but if you still
doubt it, I will come up there some day and show you
how to turn an ace of clubs, into a ten—I have frequently
done it. Pshaw! my dear captain, you are a tyro in
shooting, and I will take you as my pupil. At present, I
must get on—retreat—retire—abandon my ground and
my boasts. I have an engagement, which even your fascinating
neglect. Good morning, gentlemen.”
Having uttered which words, with a suppressed chuckle
at the expression of the captain's countenance, Sansoucy,
buttoned his coat and set forward again toward the abode
of Joe Lacklitter and Ellie.
“What a disagreeable animal the captain is becoming,”
he said, carelessly, “he is absolutely growing intolerable.
These men stalk about the community, twirl their mustaches,
and talk about `my duelling-pistols,' until they
really make one sick of their cant. If there was a spark
of animal courage in that great lubber, it would not be so
bad; but he is absolutely and entirely deficient in that
somewhat common quality, and endeavors to hide the fact
by eternally asserting his heroism. I don't believe the
story about his New Orleans Frenchman—I consider
his Neapolitan romance almost amusing: I deduce from
these narratives, not the conclusion that Captain Tarnish
is a terrible fellow, but that his Lordship is a sneak.
Ancient Pistol is not dead, and one might laugh at these
gentlemen, if they were not guilty of things which are far
from being laughable. There is Tarnish, who does not
believe in any of the traits which make the character we
call gentleman; and he has as little faith in anything like
purity in women. He would ruin a child, as carelessly as
he would cheat at cards—the only difference being that in
one case he would be kicked out, in the other, be exterminated
as one of those dirty vermin of society, who are
trodden out by those they have outraged, as a spider is,—
leaving a most detestable odor behind them. They laugh
great bully and coward—I am sure he is—considered me
a dupe to his fine boastings. Bah! how disagreeable he
is, and I almost regret that I have soiled my mind with
his voice. How can we prevent it, however? We meet
these men everywhere—cynics whisper that the ladies admire
them, and fall into a delightful flutter when they
speak of their adventures. Men like this Mr. Fantish
walk arm-in-arm with them—though, faith! I think Mr.
Fantish is scarcely capable of being soiled. Well, the race
of Tarnishes will proceed upon their way, I suppose, and
boast, and swagger, utter falsehoods and menaces, and
play their parts and be rewarded duly. Let me not judge
them—but try to play a worthier role myself. I think the
sight of Ellie will relieve me of my spleen!”
So having arrived at this happy conclusion, Mr. Sansoucy
stopped thinking and muttering, and went on with
a cheerful smile.
10. CHAPTER X.
MR. SANSOUCY DESCENDS INTO LOW LIFE AND MAKES
HIMSELF AGREEABLE.
From the scenes in which figure Doctor Fossyl, Heartsease,
Captain Tarnish, and the other “good society” personage
of this history, the winter passes with much pleasure
to that humbler and quite different sphere, illustrated
by the virtues and tenderness of Ellie, and the kindness
does he turn even to the consideration of Aunt Phillis,
that best of Africans, and prospectively to those other
characters, Captain Schminky and his mysterious foe,
“Sam”—or as his intimates were in the habit of styling
him, “Wide-Awake.”
'Tis a pity that in real life we so seldom take these excursions
into the abodes of the poor; and that this ignorance
causes us to lose a thousand beautiful spectacles and
valuable lessons which ever rise like rainbows over that
bitter gulf called Poverty. Could we banish for a time the
habitudes which shape our lives, and casting aside the
schemes and pleasures which absorb us, seek this strange
life in its remote haunts, the admirable and touching scenes
which would reward us, might do much to show us what
the Saviour meant, when he said, “the poor you have
always with you.”
For a time, then, let us return to Ellie and her associates,
who live with much difficulty that life, whose
philosophy we have heard discussed in theory. Since we
last stood in the presence of Joe Lacklitter, nearly a
month, as we have said, has passed. That month has
made many changes in the situation of Uncle Joe and
Ellie. They no longer occupy the hovel in which they
then lived. Mr. Sansoucy has faithfully performed the
promise he gave Ellie, and they now occupy two small
and comfortable rooms in the large dilapidated dwelling,
in the basement of which Aunt Phillis plies her trade of
washerwoman and ironer.
This old house is one of a class which must have frequently
an observant and curious turn of mind, for such edifices
are found indifferently in all cities of the old and new
world. Occupied first by the family of its owner, it had
advanced through its first stage of existence as a respectable
dwelling-house, with tall mantel-pieces, huge old
staircases, and carved balustrades, down which the young
of several generations had slided gaily, making the old
walls ring with laughter. Then, like all human things,
the old house changed. The town moved away, and
spread itself abroad in verdant pastures, and over forest
slopes; and trade took up its abode where domestic life
had so long reigned. The front door was widened, the
partitions were knocked down, the floors pierced by square
openings, through which passed ropes with pullies up and
down, and from the eaves a sort of dormer-window roof
protruded, from which hung a dozen ropes, used to raise
barrels and all species of produce. The second era of
the building lasted longer than the first—but gradually
this, too, passed away. The floors became shaky beneath
the great piles of barrels, the plaster crumbled, the roof
let in some rain; and the enterprising firm who did
business there abandoned it, and went away to their new
granite front; and the question occurred to the proprietor,
what use could be made of the old edifice? But one
thing remained—to convert it into a sort of lodging house
for poor families, and this was accordingly done by
restoring the partitions, nailing up the floors, and fastening
some new shingles on the roof.
When we find ourselves before the old house, it has
The new shingles are quite as old-looking as the rest—the
stairway is full of cobwebs—the floors are rotten, and
shake. Let us ascend. We are in Joe Lacklitter's
room.
Joe has profited by the attendance of Doctor Fossyl,
and sits up now in an old easy chair, prepared by Ellie
There are a few additions to his former scant and poor
furniture, and a small but comfortable fire burns in the
wide, old rusty fire-place. Opposite to the invalid sits
Charley, woefully inclining his feet, as though from habit,
over the fire; and in one corner of the room sits Ellie.
The cold wind sweeps around the tottering old house,
and the chill glare of snow falls through the window.
The invalid draws the blanket closer around his shoulders
as the wind whistles beneath the door, and puts a brand
upon the fire. As he stoops to do this, Ellie rises quickly
and comes to his assistance, with the sweetest smile which
anybody can imagine, and makes up the fire in a moment.
As she rises, her brown hair falls around her face, so
tender and pure, and her deep blue eyes dwell upon the
invalid's face with a softness and love which makes her
countenance inexpressibly beautiful.
With her uncle's improved health, Ellie seems to be
regularly recovering her spirits, and her smile possesses
no longer that uncomplaining sadness which made it so
touching during his illness. Her cheeks are not so thin,
and when she goes back to her work in the corner, she
sets about it with the most delightful little housewife-air
that you ever saw in all your life.
The invalid looks in the fire, smiling faintly; Charley
inserts the little finger of his left hand into the right corner
of his mouth; and Ellie sets to work most assiduously
upon some garment she is making.
The silence continues for some time, when a step is
heard ascending the stairs, and Ellie's face rises from her
work, the needle is poised in her hand, and she listens.
The step continues to ascend, and a happy color comes
into the child's cheek: with the marvellous instinct of love
and gratitude, she has recognized that step, and when a
knock is heard, she no longer thinks of her work, but,
throwing it down, runs to open the mouldy old door.
Mr. Sansoucy enters, smiling—and Ellie in a moment
has taken his hat, and set a chair for him, and is standing
gazing at him, with tears of pleasure and gratitude in her
eyes, which make them swim in happy light.
“Well, Joe,” says Mr. Sansoucy, “how are you to-day?
As to asking this young lady how she is, I have not the
least intention of making a goose of myself. She is
distressingly well, and in good spirits—eh, madam?—but
how are you, Joe?”
“I 'm a deal better, sir. I 'm beholden to you for
everything; and its like your kindness to call.”
“Like my kindness? Bother! where is any kindness?”
“Comin' to see a poor sick creature like me.”
“I wonder if I didn't want exercise 'on this fine morning?”
“I dunno' any another gentleman would a' come through
the snow to see poor Joe Lacklitter, sich a day, sir.”
“It's nothing to me whether you know any such man,
or not—here I am: and I am glad to see you all, even
down to that scarecrow, who is putting his foot in the
fire. Stop, sir!” added Mr. Sansoucy to Charley, who
drew back, thunderstruck, at this terrible address.
“I called this morning scarcely to do more than
inquire how you are,” continued Mr. Sansoucy; “have
you seen Doctor Fossyl to-day?”
“Yes, sir—he's jist gone.”
“A great bear!”
“He's rough, sir, but he's done me a deal o' good.”
“Has he? Well I'm glad of that. I can give you
that much assistance, at any rate.”
“Oh, sir! you're too good all along.”
“Come! no compliments, Joe. I can wish you health
and happiness, and I can send my physician down. That
don't cost anything—physicians are an admirable set of
fellows, for they scarcely ever ask for money. But
beyond this I can't do much. If I was only a millionaire!”
“Yes, sir,” said Joe, smiling weakly.
“But I am not, unfortunately,” continued Sansoucy;
“I am editor and poet—consequently I reside in a
garret, and feed chiefly on the sweets of fancy. It is
unfortunate that you are not a poet, Joe Lacklitter.”
“Me, sir!”
“Yes: for then you might imagine that you were a
hearty young fellow, with all the illusions and romance of
youth, strolling after a splendid dinner, with some angel,
through the woods of fancy—and that sort of thing. Now
to Charley; “there you are, putting your toes
into that blaze! A pretty sight you'll be with burnt
toes, won't you!”
Charley was too completely overwhelmed by this
terrific apostrophe, to reply to the interrogatory addressed
to him. He quailed before the eye of Mr. Sansoucy, and
with a movement of helpless awe, removed the little finger
of his left hand from the right corner of his mouth, and
inserted the same finger of his right hand in the left
corner.
“Never mind, Joe, you will be a jolly young fellow
yet,” continued Mr. Sansoucy, regarding Charley with
cruel triumph: “and this young woman, here, will help
you to get about again.”
“Ellie, sir? she's a dear good girl, sir—the Lord
bless her—a good child—so's Charley. Yes, sir, a good
girl!”
“Does Ellie go to school ever, Joe?”
“No, sir: it takes a power o' money to git schoolin'.
But if the Lord spares me, she shall—and Charley too.”
“I will take that boy to my Ragged School!”
Charley, who had been extending his toes toward the
blaze again, from habit, drew them back with dreadful
apprehension, when the eye of Mr. Sansoucy rested on
him.
“Your Ragged School, sir?”
“Yes: I teach.”
“Oh, you are so good, sir!—so good and kind!” said
the low voice of Ellie; and turning toward the voice,
face, and filled with such a wealth of sweetness and
gratitude, that he paused involuntarily, and gazed at the
child as he would have done upon a touching picture.
“Good, Ellie!” he said at last, with a low sigh; “no,
indeed, my child, you are very much mistaken. I am
very far from being good, and these things are no proof
of it. It is a selfish thing with me—it amuses and entertains
me. I learn there and elsewhere much more
than I teach.”
And he looked for a moment so kindly and sadly at
Ellie, that his countenance was scarcely recognizable as
the same careless face it had been but an instant before.
The expression passed, however, and he said, with his old
smile:
“Wouldn't you like to go to school, madam—and have
a carriage and horses—and silver have to spare, as the
poet says?”
“Oh, no, sir!—but I'd like to go to Sunday School,”
said Ellie.
“Did you never go?”
“A little, once, sir.”
“And why did you stop, Ellie?”
Ellie hesitated, and a slight color came into her
cheeks.
“Because—I did not like to—the other scholars were
neat, sir—and uncle said—indeed I would have gone,
sir—”
And Ellie stopped. She could not bear to seem to
beg. But Mr. Sansoucy understood at once.
“Ragged!” he cried; “I knew it was ragged! In a
Christian land young ladies throw away dresses half
worn, when these little ones need them! Now Ellie,
listen to me! I have a friend who has made me a singular
present. Can you guess what it is?”
Ellie smiled, and said:
“I'm afraid not, sir—a present?”
“Yes, and I do not know what to do with it. She is
so good and soft-hearted, that I really have not the heart
to refuse to accept it. But what can I do with it?”
Mr. Sansoucy enjoyed Ellie's perplexity, and said:
“It's a dress!”
“A dress, sir?”
“Yes, indeed!”
“A lady gave you a dress?” said Ellie, smiling.
“Precisely—and I'm not jesting. I give it to you.”
“Oh, sir—indeed, indeed, I'd rather not—please do
not think I meant to ask you for anything; you have
been so good—”
“That's enough, my little friend. I am determined
you shall have it, and you shall. Do you understand that,
child?”
Ellie bowed her head, and said not a word.
“It is at Mrs. Ashton's, and you are to go there for it
this morning,” continued Mr. Sansoucy. “What are you
making there?”
“Some shirts, sir,” said Ellie.
“For whom?”
“Mrs. Brown, sir!”
“You shall make me a whole set when they are finished,
and I will pay you just at any moment you `draw”'—
“Oh, sir! I will be so glad! If you will only let me
do them for nothing. I would work all night for you.”
“And I should quarrel all day! No, Ellie: I know
you work well, and I will pay you well. Now get your
bonnet and shawl, and go up at once for your dress. You
think I am jesting.”
“Oh, no, sir.”
And Ellie went with childlike obedience, and got the
old shawl that Mr. Sansoucy had made her keep: the
shawl was wrapped well around her, and the old wadded
bonnet tied around her chin, and she looked quite
comfortable.
“I am going part of the way with Ellie, Joe,” said Mr.
Sansoucy, “and I'll try and come down and see you in a
day or two. There is what I promised to advance to you
for support during your sickness. You're a handy fellow,
and I have no doubt about the repayment. There! no
thanks! You'll be well by Christmas, and we'll go to
church—children and all—in my fairy chariot, drawn by
mice and made out of a pumpkin, like Cinderella's, in the
opera. Farewell!”
And with that odd, wistful smile, which neither the
present historian, or anybody else, could ever understand,
Mr. Sansoucy went out, followed by Ellie, and was soon
once more in the freezing street.
11. CHAPTER XI.
AURELIA'S DRESS.
“I think I will accompany you all the way, Ellie,”
said Mr. Sansoucy, as they took their way along the slippery,
and snow covered streets, “the lady who presented
me with the dress I have given to you—I have deceived
you slightly in the matter, but have few compunctions—
is a particular friend of mine, and I like her very much.”
“Then I am sure she is good and kind, sir,” said Ellie,
with her simple and sincere look. “I do not think you
would like her, if she was not.”
“Why so, my little friend?”
“Because you are so good, sir.”
“There you are beginning to flatter me again.”
“Oh, no, sir—the flattery of a poor child like me would
be a very trifling thing. Indeed, indeed, sir! you have
been so kind and good to us, and I can't help saying how
grateful I am.”
“Pshaw! you amuse me. You are such a little hop
o' my thumb. How old are you?”
“Eleven, sir.”
“That was just the age of—well, of Aurelia—when we
parted.”
“Of who, sir?”
“Aurelia: the lady we are going to see.”
“Is her name Aurelia?”
“Yes.”
“It is a very pretty name.”
“So it is—and I think you will say that the face of
the lady who bears it is not disagreeable.”
“Oh, I am sure of it, sir. She is kind, I know!”
“Very kind—but also very gay.”
“I like to see gay people,” said Ellie, smiling, “it looks
as if they were happy and thankful, and loved God.”
“I wish some of my friends could hear you say that:
they would put you down immediately as a little heretic.”
“How so?” asked Ellie, wonderingly; “I know what
a heretic is—”
“They say Christians ought not to be gay.”
Ellie shook her head.
“I don't think that is right, sir,” she said; “I suppose
it is better not to be too light and thoughtless, but God
does not forbid our being happy and cheerful, because we
are Christians. I think it ought to make us happier than
ever, for this is the only sort of happiness which cannot
be taken away from us”
“Yes.”
“I think happiness is the absence of anxiety and care
and pain—a sort of peace of the heart, and you know
what the Bible says—“the peace of God which passes all
understanding.' He would not speak of it in that way—
I believe it was Paul—if he had not felt that he could not
describe it, or explain it.”
“You are right, Ellie, and you are a thousand times
happy to possess so warm and living a faith. I envy you,
and long for it. When you pray, Ellie, ask God to give
me this peace—will you?” said Mr. Sansoucy, sadly.
“Oh, yes, sir! But I do every day. I pray for all my
out. Oh, no, sir!”
Sansoucy has since told us, that the look which went
with these words, was that of a guardian angel; so full
of purity and love and goodness did it shine on him.
“Ah, Ellie,” he said, “it was some such one as you
that a great poet thought of when he said:
Whose loves in higher love endure—
What souls possess themselves so pure,
Or is their happiness like theirs!'
not equal to Lord Byron—I am told. Now let us hasten
on. The day seems to grow colder and colder.”
They traversed the glittering streets thereafter in silence:
and after a while reached Mr. Ashton's comfortable
house.
“You are very punctual!” said Aurelia, who ran forward,
laughing, and holding out her hand, “and is that
your little friend?”
“Yes, my dear Miss Cinderella,” said Sansoucy, smiling,
“and she is come to get your every-day dress, before you
went to the ball in your fairy chariot and costume.”
“What a satirical way you have; you know it was just
the contrary—for my every-day dress is much better than
my ball costume. Witness my elegant morning wrapper!”
And smiling gaily, Miss Aurelia smoothed the folds of
her handsome morning dress. Indeed, she looked like a
princess, although that dress was simple. Her auburn
sunlight, and her blue eyes danced with health and pleasure.
“Very well,” said Mr. Sansoucy, “go and get Ellie's
dress—”
“Oh, her name is Ellie!—how do you do, Ellie?” said
the young girl, frankly and kindly, holding out her white
hand, “your name is so pretty.”
“Ellie has just been admiring yours.”
“Indeed.”
“Yes; and she hazarded the observation that you must
be a very `good and kind' young lady.”
“Did she?”
“Because he said you were his friend, ma'am,” said
Ellie, tenderly. “He has been so kind to us.”
“Pshaw!” said Mr. Sansoucy, “I was in a good
humor—that was all, Miss Aurelia. I had a visit from
Mr. Heartsease, and he made me laugh!”
“Laugh?”
“Certainly; he is a most amusing fellow. Didn't you
find him so?”
“He entertained me very much at the ball.”
“Yes, when he got the dance which I wished.”
“The dance?” asked Aurelia, with a delightful expression
of inquiry.
“Yes, my dear madam. Is it possible you were not
aware that I coveted, and was about to petition for, your
lily hand in the cotillion which you danced with Mr.
Heartsease?”
“Ahem!” said Miss Aurelia, laughing, and driven into
a corner by this home question.
“And the rooms were so warm, you said, that you
could not dance again. What an abominable disappointment!”
“You are laughing at me.”
“No, indeed; I was laughing at the ridiculous idea
which occurred to me.”
“What was that? Is it possible that ridiculous ideas
ever occur to Monsieur Sansoucy, traveller and journalist?”
“Sometimes; and the idea which struck me last night
was the absurdity of Ernest and Aurelia not being able
to secure each other for a single cotillion.”
Aurelia received the hit full in front, and colored.
“Oh, yes!” she stammered, laughing, “I have heard of
those personages!”
“Heard of them?”
“Yes, I know two intimate friends of these young
people.”
“Whom?”
“Mr. Sansoucy and Miss Ashton!”
And having thus taken her revenge, Miss Aurelia
laughed gaily, and turned to Ellie.
“What a thin dress you have, Ellie,” she said, “are
you not cold?”
“No, ma'am—this shawl is—”
“Oh! he gave it to you!”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“He seems to be a very amiable gentleman,” said
Aurelia, “and now, if you will come up stairs, Ellie, I will
give you his dress.”
With which words Miss Aurelia ran up stairs, beckoning
Ellie to follow her. The child followed, and in a quarter
of an hour they both returned—Ellie having the dress
securely tied up in a newspaper.
“What are you doing, Monsieur?” said Aurelia to
Sansoucy, for that gentleman was seated at the piano.
“I am trying the accompaniment of this—you know I
play, or may be you don't know.”
And Mr. Sansoucy pointed, with a smile, to the open
music, which Aurelia had been playing when they entered.
“A very interesting query the song addresses to the
company generally,” continued Mr. Sansoucy. “`Where
are the friends of my youth?' What a pity that the
`cherished ones' don't ring the bell, and make a morning
call!”
Aurelia uttered quite a merry little laugh at this, and
looked more rosy and good-humored than ever.
“Or perhaps you were singing this song beneath,” said
Sansoucy, “`'Tis better to laugh than be sighing'—from
Lucrezia.”
And Mr. Sansoucy uttered something very much like
the ceremony indicated in the last word of the title.
“I do think so,” said Aurelia, “and I think of having
an opportunity of carrying out my opinion. I am going
to the fair this morning.”
“Are you?”
“Yes; and of course I shall laugh heartily at somebody.
Such ridiculous persons go to fairs sometimes.”
“That 's true—I attend them frequently.”
“Oh! you mean to force my words—”
“By no means: I am made ridiculous, madam, by the
young ladies. To know what I want, they ask if I am
married or single, for they know I am good-humored.
And you must be aware that such a question is a terrible
thrust at a bachelor!”
“A thrust? Why?”
“Because there is always a great deal of sarcasm beneath
it. The opinion of ladies upon this point is
incredibly ill-founded. They imagine that bachelors are
the most unhappy creatures in the world.”
“Well, sir, are you not?”
“Just the contrary.”
“I do not believe it.”
“Well, I nevertheless assert it. Why, my dear Miss
Aurelia, you really cannot imagine the state of careless
happiness in which the devotees of single blessedness live.
I mean, of course, the male devotees.”
“Oh, yes, sir! Now you are laughing at old maids!”
“No, no—I have many excellent and admirable friends
among such; and, not seldom, is the purest lily left upon
its stalk, because the common roses flaunt before them—
and as often do they remain there from choice. I do not
assert that they are unhappy—but I know we bachelors
are not.”
“Poor creatures!”
“Yes, very unhappy! We are compelled to have
nothing to do with trouble, and toil, and care—we are
forced to be gay and merry—we are condemned to enjoy
the world, and cull `joy and beauty' from everything.
The fact is, we are in a dreadful state, and having no
to be happy.”
“Pshaw! even Ellie, there, knows that this is pretence,
sir.”
“She knows nothing of the sort, my dear Miss Aurelia.
It is necessary to have your philosophical invention, to
see the `struggling sigh' under my tirade.”
“Ah, you acknowledge it, do you, sir? Well, that
satisfies me, and I will not continue the subject.”
“We will return to it at the fair. Shall I escort you?”
“If you please.”
“Having found one of the `friends of your youth,' you
know—”
“I will no longer ask where they are gone,” finished
Aurelia, laughing, and closing the piano. “I go at
twelve.”
“That is my dismissal, I suppose, for the present.”
“No, indeed: I am going up stairs to get my work.
You have my full permission to remain.”
“No, thank you—I have some business. I will return.
Come, Ellie—you stand there like a little statue, though
not like Mr. Poe's heroine, your namesake—the `agate
lamp within your hand.”'
“Strange!” said Aurelia, looking at the child: “I
must have seen Ellie somewhere.”
“Seen her?”
“Yes: her face is quite familiar. One of the common
coincidences, I suppose.
“Doubtless.”
“You must come again to see me, Ellie—you may be
able to do something for me—I have a load of sewing.”
Ellie thanked the young girl, and followed Mr. Sansoucy,
who took his departure with a gallant bow.
“Well, my little friend,” said Mr. Sansoucy, when they
were once more in the street: “does Miss Aurelia impress
you favorably? I am anxious to have your
opinion.”
“Oh, yes sir! She is so beautiful!”
“But good?”
“I think she must be, sir—I am sure of it.”
Sansoucy shook his head.
“She is getting too light,” he said, dolefully; and she
understands too well, I am afraid, that all my flourishes
about the felicity of single life, were prepared for the
occasion. What a terrible load of falsehood we bachelors
have upon our conscience. Here I am, by no means
averse to matrimony—tired of bachelordom in a word—
and I find myself continually declaring that nothing could
force me to change my condition! In fact I know but
one person who possesses that power,” Mr. Sansoucy
said, sighing and smiling; “and it is altogether problematical
whether she will exercise it! Well, here I am,
growing despondent, as I was at the ball; an honest fellow,
like myself, has no cause to fear repulse from any
woman, it seems to me. I will go home, and light a
cigar, and lay out my campaign!”
Having arrived at this determination, Mr. Sansoucy's
countenance recovered its sunshine, and taking Ellie's
hand, he went onward gaily. After a little while he took
of his hands, was not able to bow as elegantly as usual
to his lady acquaintances. It is to be hoped, however,
that they pardoned this in consideration of the circumstances.
They reached the corner near the shooting gallery, at
last, and Mr. Sansoucy delivered up the bundle, waved
his hand in a friendly way to Captain Tarnish, who
nodded as he passed, and with a promise to the child to
come again soon, repaired to his office.
Ellie continued her way, and soon reached home.
12. CHAPTER XII.
ELLIE MEETS A CYNICAL VISITOR.
Ellie hastened in with her bundle, and not heeding
the chill wind which blew to the door behind her, and
whistled through the deserted passages of the old building,
ran up to her uncle's room, and entered smiling.
“Oh, look, uncle!” she said; the lady was so good to
me! and gave me this!”
“Gave you what?” said a harsh voice behind the
invalid: and Ellie raising her startled eyes, saw Doctor
Fossyl crouching on Charley's stool.
“There now! you pretend you didn't see me!” said
the cynic satirically; “you pretend you didn't see my
carriage standing at the corner, held by that rascally boy
I have engaged! A pretty young person, you are!”
Doctor Fossyl uttered these words with so much harshness,
that Ellie colored and looked down.
“Where have you been?” he asked, triumphantly.
“To—to—Mrs. Ashton's, sir.”
“And what lady was so good to you?”
“Miss Aurelia, sir.”
“Aurelia what?”
“I don't know, sir—but she is Mr. Sansoucy's friend.”
“Hum! and so that Sansoucy makes himself the prince
of a fairy tale, does he?”
“Sir?”
“I say your Mr. Sansoucy is a goose.”
“Oh, no, sir! no, sir! he is good to us.”
“There it is! And you believe he don't expect something
in return. I suppose you think he don't go and tell
everybody how magnanimous he is, in aiding you!”
“I am sure he does not, sir,” said Ellie, firmly.
“And who are you to have an opinion?”
“I am only a child,” said Ellie, firm in the defence of
her friend, “and what I say is very little praise. But Mr.
Sansoucy is as good as he can be—Oh, indeed he is!”
“Bother! and what is that in your bundle?”
“A dress, sir.”
“Who gave it to you?”
“Miss Aurelia.”
“Oh, yes! that's the meaning of your cant about being
`so kind' to you. Bah! this angling after `good report,'
sickens me. The world is growing rotten.”
Ellie sat down without reply, and the cynical physician
looked satirically at her.
“And I suppose you consider Miss Aurelia the instrument
of Providence?” he said, at length.
“Yes, sir,” said Ellie, simply.
“And because I give you nothing, I am not. You
hate me, I suppose.”
“Oh, no!”
“Don't be hypocritical! You know you consider me a
bear, and a morose curmudgeon, and make mouths at me
behind my back.”
“Oh, no, no, sir! I never did.”
“Very well, madam, you had better not! But I'm tired
of you—go play with your doll. And you, sir, do you
understand the directions I gave?” he added, to Uncle Joe.
“Yes, Doctor,” said Joe, who seemed to have grown
used to the physicians' surliness.
“And have you money for the medicines? You have?
That is most probably untrue—this foolish pride of the
poor! There, sir—and now I am rid of you.”
With which words Dr. Fossyl threw down some money
and rose.
“Don't be saying you won't have it—I choose you
shall,” he said, “that is my choice; and you, Miss, I suppose,
are very glad you are not sick to be doctored by
such a tiger as me.”
“Oh, sir,” Ellie said, “indeed I did not think so
harshly!”
“You pretend you are not angry, maybe?”
“Indeed, I am not.”
The Doctor looked piercingly at her for a moment, and
a sardonic smile flitted across his face.
“Well,” he said, “if you are in trouble, come to my
house, and I will help you—if those rascally rich fellows
pay me my honest dues. They haggle about paying me
a thousand dollars for a complete cure, when they have
no more constitution left than I could take up on the end
of a needle. Let 'em try it! I'll let 'em die. I'm not
to be tricked. I say I will help you, if you want it; and
I will not expect you to tell everybody of my `goodness'—
who are you glowering at, sir?” said Dr. Fossyl, suddenly,
to Charley, who was contemplating his spindle legs and
sallow face, with curiosity and terror, “who are you staring
out of countenance, you young villain!”
This terrific address completely upset Charley's equanimity,
and his head sank. Doctor Fossyl seemed to be
pleased with this triumph, and with a parting scowl took
his leave.
“He's mighty rough,” said Joe Lacklitter, looking after
him, “but he's a great doctor, Ellie, and I s'pose ain't
used to waitin' on the likes o' me. But where's your dress,
daughter?”
“Here, uncle,” said Ellie, and she unrolled the comfortable
frock.
“Why it's elegant! but it's too big for you.”
“I can easily alter it, dear uncle, and have some stuff
left—you know I don't care for long skirts—my stockings
are thick and warm. Oh, how happy and kind the lady
looked!”
“Did she? Well, I'm much beholden to her on your
account, daughter.”
“I wish you had the dress, uncle,” said Ellie, smiling,
Now I must see about dinner.”
And Ellie bustled about with a hopeful and smiling
face, and made the fire burn up, and set the kettle for some
tea, and got out the table, and put it with the best plate,
at her uncle's elbow.
“Oh, me!” she said, as she reached on the shelf, “we
haven't a bit of sugar. I must go and get some.”
And Ellie quickly wrapped her old shawl around her
shoulders, put on her wadded bonnet, and went out. At
the door she met Doctor Fossyl coming up out of Aunt
Phillis' cellar, and swearing at the lowness of the crossbeam,
which seemed to have taken the liberty of knocking
the Doctor's head jocularly, as he emerged from the low
cellar of Aunt Phillis.
Ellie drew back; but the Doctor saw her.
“A pretty sort of houses you have in this miserable
street!” he said, making Ellie the recipient of his complaints;
“here I am going down on a visit wholly `charitable,'
as the cant is, to this negro woman, who is `poorly,'
as she mutters; and I am repaid by having my head
knocked off.
Perhaps Doctor Fossyl meant his hat, for he now
steadied that article of attire upon his head and scowled.
“Where are you going?” he said to the child.
“To get some sugar, sir,” replied Ellie.
“And what do you want with it? To make a sugarrag
for that baby up there, who stared at my legs?”
“No, sir—for uncle.”
“Oh, `uncle'—he is the sugar eater, is he? Uncle
to love him.”
“I do, dearly, sir.”
“Bother! you depend for your support upon him, and
flatter him!”
“Oh, no, sir!”
“Don't be breaking into your protestations with me,
child. I am not to be taken in. The whole world is
banded together to make me believe a lie—that there is
something pure and disinterested on this miserable earth.
I know better. Life is a farce; and the only difference is
that the leading clown is called President or King. Bah!
I am sick of it; and if it goes on much longer, I will
commit suicide, and leave my property to found a hospital
for invalid dogs! Don't answer me! We are all fools
together, and I don't pretend to be one jot or tittle better
than the rest—except that I know I am a fool and knave,
and don't conceal it, while the rest pretend that they are
mighty fine!”
So saying, Doctor Fossyl ground his teeth at the wind,
which took a few liberties with his cloak, and went toward
his open carriage, which stood at the corner of the street.
Here a new cause of wrath presented itself, and always
watchful for a chauce to explode angrily, Doctor Fossyl
promptly availed himself of the occasion.
13. CHAPTER XIII.
WIDE-AWAKE AND HIS ENEMIES.
The `rascal' who had been engaged to act in the capacity
of driver, and holder of his horses when he dismounted
in his rounds, was no other than our friend, Sam Beau, or,
as his intimates were accustomed in friendly playfulness to
style him, “Wide-Awake.”
It will be remembered—at least we trust it will—that
this young gentleman was the same who came to Ellie's
assistance on that morning when the crowd of boys were
trying to lead Charley into evil courses, and prevented
this design by overcoming, in pitched battle, the leader
of the enemy. Since that time, Wide-Awake had tried,
as usual, every sort of employment, and in turn had left
all. He had worked at jobs upon the lighters—assisting
in unloading or loading those crafts—had run, like a
newspaper picture of the god of news, all over the city,
crying in a strident and jocose voice, the names of a dozen
papers; he had further aided in the circulation of those
journals in the morning, for subscribers—and had seriously
contemplated becoming a devil at the office of the journal
which was the exponent of his opinions in politics and
letters. He had, however, abandoned this project,
and accepted the office of bar-tender in a fashionable
drinking saloon, in order, as he said, to study human
nature there by gas-light. He had soon grown tired of
the study, however, and one morning frankly suggested to
the proprietor that he ought to close his “concern,” upon
however, only caused him to become the recipient of a
torrent of abuse; and he had jocularly launched a bit of
cracker at the orator, and gone away singing. Just a
week before the day of Doctor Fossyl's visit to Joe Lacklitter,
Wide-Awake had entered into his service, upon the
ground of the perfect sympathy on his part with the
Doctor's views of life and things—and thus studying
human nature across a foot-board, had been much entertained
and instructed thereby. The versatile genius of
the “assistant,” however, had been fretting for “fresh
fields and pastures new,” and on this day a favorable
opportunity was presented to him for a change.
When Doctor Fossyl came out of Aunt Phillis' cellar,
he descried Wide-Awake standing upon the pavement at
the corner and dancing, for the purpose, probably, of
keeping his feet warm—while, with his hands in his
pockets, and his face radiant with interest and pleasure, he
looked down the street, quite past the Doctor.
Now, the carriage of Docter Fossyl was drawn by two
splendid horses, whose necks were curved magnificently,
and who champed their bits, and pawed the snow impatiently.
They were evidently not of that milky disposition
which renders it safe to leave the possessor standing anywhere;
and this made the neglect of Wide-Awake more
flagrant and worthy of punishment.
Doctor Fossyl hastened forward, drawing his old cloak
around his slender legs, and coming up to Wide-Awake,
who was still dancing, caught that gentleman by the collar
and shook him wrathfully.
“What do you mean, you scoundrel!” he cried. “What
do you mean by leaving my horses standing there alone?”
Wide-Awake made a leap backward, which disengaged
his collar, and replied, jocosely:
“I say, Doctor, ain't that a fine turn-out?”
With which Mr. Wide-Awake pointed to a company of
volunteers, in brilliant uniforms, who were visible some
way down the street.
“Turn-out, you rascal? You dare to talk about a
turn-out when I am speaking about my horses!”
“They're a turn-out too, you know, Doctor,” said
Wide-Awake, with an independent and disrespectful gesture.
“I 'm goin' to leave you, and join the Yagers?”
“You rascal! let me get hold of you!”
“What for, Doctor?” Wide-Awake demanded, with a
cautious avoidance of Dr. Fossyl's approach; “that
wouldn't do any good.”
“I'll thrash you!”
“Where would be the use? I never did see any doctors
that were reasonable. Now, I told you that I went
about with you to see human nature. I've seen it, and
I'm goin' somewhere else.”
“Wretch!”
“Oh, no, I ain't a wretch, Doctor—I'm a philosopher,
I want to see life. I ain't like you. You are rich enough
to drive about in a coach with four horses with two
drivers, and two footmen—taking prescriptions out o'
your pocket with one hand, and putting money in with
the other,—and keeping the footman lumberin' at the
knockers on both sides o' the streets till the people think
independent, but I'm a philosopher, and I am goin' the
rounds.”
The Doctor made a movement to grasp the collar of
Wide-Awake, but that gentleman ducked his head, thrust
his right forefinger over his left shoulder, and took his
departure, with the friendly caution to the Doctor to
“take care of himself and not bile over.”
Doctor Fossyl was so much enraged at this summary
proceeding that he stood perfectly still for some moments,
gnashing and grinding his teeth. Finding that this, however,
was not in itself a gratifying proceeding, he at last
got into his carriage, and drove off, lashing his fine
amimals furiously.
“What a jolly old coon,” said Wide-Awake, “I'm
almost sorry I left him—but I'm tired. Besides yonder's
Captain Schminky and the Yagers—hurrah! go it! here
we are!”
And uttering a shrill whistle, Wide-Awake jumped ten
feet, and ran toward the abode of Captain Schminky,
before which the company were drawn up in military
array.
During the conversation between Dr. Fossyl and his
assistant, Eilie had made her way toward the shop of
Captain Schminky, and passing through the martial-looking
Yagers, and the children who swarmed to see them,
entered the shop.
She found herself in presence of the Captain of the Yagers
himself, who was resplendent in his brilliant uniform,
and carried his gilt-handled sword with warrior-like grace.
Within two paces stood the Lieutenant of the Yagers,
with his hand upon his hat-brim, receiving orders.
“You vil traw up de koompany in right line, Lefdenent,”
said Captain Schminky.
“Yes, Gaptain.”
“You vil den call me and de roll.”
The Lieutenant signified that he would call the personage
and the thing.
“An' you vil disburse de crowd, Lefdenant—de vagabones.”
The Lieutenant made a respectful sign, and wheeling
round went out in a military walk, which was in the best
style.
“Now, young 'oomans,” said Captain Schminky, good-naturedly;
“what do you want?”
“Some sugar, if you please, sir,” said Ellie, “a pound.”
“Your name ees Elley?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You is young frent—I geef you de pound zugar”—I
geef you doo pount.”
And Captain Schminky made a dignified sign to his
shop-keeper, who hastened to wait upon the young friend
of his master.
“We will now brocede to gall de names,” observed
Captain Schminky.
And raising his head still higher, the worthy Captain
issued forth, and stood in presence of his admiring company.
The “Yagers” were, as their name signifies, of
German blood, and, indeed, this was a pre-requisite to
admission into the company. They were clad in very
generally men of great thrift, and are consequently well to
do in the world, as they deserve to be; and are well able
to gratify any of their fancies. The band of the “Yagers”
was especially fine and striking. In addition to the ordinary
number of wind instruments, of brass and wood, it
embraced a drum which seemed to be made for Goliah,
and a pair of cymbals which might have served for Chinese
hats.
Everything about the “Yagers” was martial and warlike—down
to their mustaches, which were huge and terrible.
When they marched, if they did not exactly shake
the ground, they produced an enormous clatter—and the
drum and cymbals out-roared and tingled any other drum
and cymbals which had ever promenaded in the van of
gallant warriors.
Captain Schminky took up a position in front of the
company, extended his arm with dignity, and commanded
the eyes of the warriors to roll toward the right, for the
purpose of “dressing.”
This was done, and then the sergeant opened his book,
and called the roll. He had nearly got through, when
Captain Schminky, who had for some time been directing
uneasy glances up the street, exclaimed:
“That'll do! glose up! here comes that tam Zam
Peau!”
The gentleman thus spoken of was Wide-Awake, who
now advanced, with dreadful satire in his countenance,
toward the captain, beating an imaginary drum, and singing
in a mighty voice:
You may be sure the Yagers come!”
which was eminently true to life.
We will not record the expressions used by Captain
Schminky under this provocation,—it is enough to say,
that they were so energetic, that Wide-Awake was filled
with uproarious and enthusiastic delight, and invented, on
the spur of the moment, the additional couplet:
Your tam ugly koompanee?”
for a chorus—Wide-Awake leaning far backwards, with
his chin up, and striking vigorous blows upon an imaginary
drum.
The shouts of the urchins, in support of Wide-Awake,
mingled with the furious objurgations of Captain Schminky;
and the affectionate solicitude of his intimates, caused
the young gentleman to verify immediately the truth of
that proverb which declares that a man in any emergency
should first be preserved from his friends. They closed
around Wide-Awake so effectually in their deep admiration,
that when Captain Schminky made a rush at his
enemy, Wide-Awake found the means of retreat wholly
cut off.
His presence of mind, however, did not desert him, and
leaping on the window sill of the shop, he evaded the
blow directed at him. Captain Schminky, however, was
not thus to be disappointed. He drew his sword and
made a lunge at Wide-Awake, which caused that agile
the summit of which, he looked down triumphantly upon
the Yagers.
A cheer rose from the vagabonds, and Captain Schminky,
panting, and red in the face, tried in vain to reach up, and
prick the audacious satirist with the point of his sword.
“No, my dear Gaptain,” said Wide-Awake, chuckling,
“you gan't do it—you gan't! Your zord ees not one
spear, vat you call one sticker! Goot mornin', gaptain, I
'ope I zee you well, and your goot koompany! ha! ha!”
Captain Schminky made desperate efforts to thrust his
sword into the dangling legs of Wide-Awake, but that
youngster drew them up with astonishing agility, all the
time balancing himself upon his hands.
“Now gaptain!” he cried, “I geef you goot day—I
love your koompany—I no make fun of the gallant Yager
band of jolly poys!—I zay every where I admire the
Yagers—I zay Gaptain Schminky is a great gommander,
and hees men putiful! No you didn't that time, gaptain!
Eh? Don't you think it, gaptain. I ain't a comin' down!”
The Yagers growled, and some of the mustaches curled
in spite of the insult to the corps. Wide-Awake perceived
this favorable sign.
“My frents,” he cried in a friendly tone, “h'ist me up
one glass of lager bier, and I will trink your fery goot
helf. I will make my gildren and my grandgildren trink
your fery goot helf—you is fery grand koompany! Oh,
gaptain! what a purty zord! Hans Doffendaffer, Sauerkraut,
Dopenfinger, and Heislinger, I geef you fery goot
tay!”
With which words Wide-Awake swung the shutters
round, caught the pipe which ran down in his reach, and
swinging to the ground began again to beat the drum, and
clash the imaginary cymbals.
It was some time before Captain Schminky recovered
his equanimity, after this attack of his enemy. He glowered
at Wide-Awake, who from a distance answered him
with smiles; and more than once shook his fist in that
direction. His ire died away, however, after a while, and
then his fine company absorbed all his attention.
He placed himself at their head, made a sign to the
drum and the rest, and crying “march!” stepped gallantly
out, and stared at vacancy with determined vigor.
The huge drum roared, the cymbals clashed, the brass
instruments rent surrounding ears, and the gallant Yagers
passed onward, wrapped in terrible and soul-inspiring
music.
Wide-Awake was left in a hopeless minority, but he
consoled himself with the hope of having more entertainment
in the future. As he turned round, with a grin upon
his careless countenance, he saw Ellie.
14. CHAPTER XIV.
WIDE-AWAKE MEDITATES FELONY IN BEHALF OF LUCIA.
We have stated that Ellie and Wide-Awake were not
strangers—on the contrary were on very good terms with
each other, and had frequently stopped to interchange
salutations and friendly greetings.
There was, in Wide-Awake, much good and honest
feeling, and this Ellie knew very well; and she was disposed
to look leniently upon his failings. As he joined
her now, however, and walked by her side, in his careless,
independent way, the child took him to task for his treatment
of Captain Schminky, telling him that it was very
wrong, and that he ought not to have done it.
“Why not?” said Wide-Awake, laughing. “That 's
just like you, Ellie. You would n't tread on the tail of a
dog!”
“Why should I?” said Ellie.
“To make him jump and holler!” exclaimed Wide-Awake,
with ready logic.
Ellie shook her head.
“Indeed, that is not right, Sam,” she said—“it is not
kind.”
“Oh, bother, Ellie! My eyes! how hard you are on a
feller!”
“I have no right to be hard on anybody, but indeed,
Sam, you ought not to make fun of Captain Schminky
and the company.”
“I can't help it—I can't! Did anybody ever see such
a pack of bull-dogs?”
“They 'll treat you badly some day.”
“Let 'em try! I 'm not afraid, and I expect to have
lots o' fun with 'em yet! Good, that `Captain Schminky,
don't you see?' was n't it?”
“Oh, no, no, Sam! It was not kind!”
“Kind! There you are, Ellie, with your kind. If a
thing ain't kind, a feller's brought right to law, and gits
the cat-o'-nine-tails.”
“I think if a thing is not kind, it is not good,” said
Ellie.
“Well,” said Wide-Awake, with some ill-humor, “I 'm
catchin' it—I am. Couldn't you pour it in a little hotter
'n' stronger—pr'aps I 'd bile over into cheers.”
With which observation Wide-Awake stuck his thumbs
into his waistcoat and elevated his head with easy sangfroid.
“Indeed, Sam, I don't intend to say anything I ought
not to—only people will think you are worse than you
are. You are good and kind, and I know how good you
have been to Lucia.”
At the name of Lucia, Wide-Awake's lofty demeanor
underwent a sudden change, and a slight color tinged his
brown cheek.
“Good to her!” he said, earnestly, “I ain't good to
her!”
“Oh, indeed you are!”
“Not that I might n't be,” added the boy, blushing, as
he looked at Ellie, “she 's as pretty and good as an angel.”
“I love her very much,” said Ellie.
“And so do I!” blustered Wide-Awake. “There, it
is out!—and I 'm rid on't! Go it!—hurrah!—I b'lieve
I 'm in love!”
And having uttered this tremendous speech, Wide-Awake
looked sheepish, and hung his head.
“In love!” said Ellie. “Oh, yes—you mean—”
“Bless you, Ellie, I mean I 'd give my life to keep her
little finger from achin'.”
Ellie smiled at what she considered a very extravagant
speech.
“I ain't nobody, I know,” said Wide-Awake, earnestly,
“and she's a angel—a angelic little organ-grinder's daughter,”
he added, with an odd appreciation of the humor in
his poetical description. “It 's too good in her to look
on the likes o' me.”
“To look on you?”
“Yes, Ellie.”
“Why, she likes you, and says you are so good.”
“Does she?” shouted Wide-Awake; “you ain't
jokin'?”
“No, indeed.”
“She says that?”
“Yes.”
“Then, hoora! go it! My fortune's made, and I'm a
goin' on my travels in a six-horse chariot, with footmen
and a driver, with a gold lace hat!”
Having thus disburdened his mind in a degree, Wide-Awake
finished by improvising a dance, which was executed
that it brought him to the door of Ellie's dwelling.
“I say!” he said, growing calm again: “is Lucia in
there?”
“I believe she is.”
“I'm goin' in.”
“Oh, yes,” said Ellie: “come up.”
“I want to, but if she begins to say anything about
my `bein' good to her,' I'll back right out.”
“Why, Sam,” said Ellie, softly: “you know you
are.”
“What did I do?” said Wide-Awake, apparently
desirous to refute Ellie; “all I did, was meetin' Lucia,
and talking' with her, and tellin' her to cheer up—that a
good time was a-comin', and the Spring would make
everything bright agin! I had a hard time sayin' it, for
Lucia looked so bad—and when I got her to talk, will
you b'leve it, Ellie, that she was weak for want of something
to eat! She was hungry!—Lucia was hungry!”
And, overwhelmed by this monstrous idea, Wide-Awake
remained silent.
“I had a little money, and we went into the shop, up
there, and got something to eat. I don't have much
money, but I had enough, you know, Ellie, Lucia was
hungry!” added Wide-Awake, as though there was a
hidden and strange enormity in the state of things which
produced such a result.
“And you helped her,” said Ellie; “and ever since
you have been coming and leaving papers of things at her
you, Sam!”
Wide-Awake shook his head.
“Yes, it was, and Lucia told me all about it—and—
and—it was very kind in you.”
The hesitation in Ellie's voice arose from the fact, that
Lucia, with the sensitive pride of her strange character,
had keenly felt the utter poverty which made her thus
dependent upon the bounty of the boy for her daily sustenance;
and had complained bitterly to Ellie of the fate
which made her thus a burden upon one nearly as poor
as herself. In fact, Lucia's misfortunes, and her friendless
condition had made her deeply melancholy, and not
even the encouraging words and assistance of Ellie could
relieve her. Ellie had been upon the point of telling
Wide-Awake how sensitive Lucia was; but she thought
it best not to;—and after a few more words, they both
went up stairs to Lucia's room.
It was a miserable sort of closet at the end of the
passage, and was entered by a small door, which did not
fit into the opening cut for it, and thus allowed the wind
to have free entrance at the sides and beneath.
At this door, Ellie and Wide-Awake knocked, with
that respect which is paid to grief and suffering: and
hearing a faint voice bid them come in, they entered.
The apartment, if such it could be called, was miserable
indeed. A tattered pallet, two benches, a rude table,
and an old chest, were its entire furniture; and the
cheerless fire-place was filled with ashes, and totally
without fire.
Lucia lay upon the poor bed, and was endeavouring to
ward off the freezing cold by wrapping around her the
worn and tattered covering. Her long dark hair fell
around her face in dishevelled curls, and her large eyes
were nearly concealed by their heavy lashes. The girl's
cheeks were covered with a faint hectic flush, and a sad
smile, full of gentleness and uncomplaining sorrow,
curved her melancholy lips.
“Oh, Lucia, said Ellie: “how could you stay here
without any fire? You promised me to come and sit
with us when you had no wood, and you know you could
have some of ours! Oh, Lucia!”
And going to her friend, Ellie knelt down, and smoothed
her hair, and kissed her.
Lucia returned the caress, and sad tears came to her
eyes, which she could not repress. Then looking up
through her tears, she said:
“Well, Sam. It was very good in you to come and
see me. I never can thank you for all your goodness.”
“Me good, Lucia!” cried Wide-Awake. “I'm a rascal!—to
be leaving you in this way here without wood.
I'll git some, and make a fire right off, if I have to tear
down some part of this old rattle-trap—I will!”
With which words Wide-Awake, in the heat of his
indignation, rushed indignantly at the door as though it
were his purpose immediately to tear that article from its
hinges and use it for fire-wood.
“Wait, Sam!” said Ellie; “stay with Lucia and I'll
get some wood—there is some in my room.”
“I won't! wait! I'll get it!”
And making a rush at the door of Ellie's little room,
adjoining her uncle's, which he was familiar with, Wide-Awake
soon returned with a supply which he arranged
upon the hearth, kindled with a match taken from his
pocket, and blew into a blaze.
Wide-Awake then requested the company to await his
return, and taking the stair-steps six at a time, vanished
in the direction of Captain Schminky's. He quite terrified
the shop-boy there by his loud and indignant demands
for what he wanted, and in an incredibly short space of
time, had returned to the old house, and laid his spoils at
the feet of Lucia.
They were sundry eatables, among which figured cheese,
biscuit, sausage, and sugar and tea. Wide-Awake did
not mention the fact that the purchase of these articles
had completely exhausted the remainder of his week's
salary, paid on that morning by Dr. Fossyl. On the contrary
you would have imagined from the manner of Wide-Awake
that he was sole proprietor of a gold mine at the
very least, and didn't mind such trifles—that foolish,
merry Wide-Awake!
Lucia was soon seated before the fire, with her long
hair falling on her shoulders; and her beautiful face more
than ever filled with that sad sweetness which generally
characterized it.
Ellie made some tea for her friend, and Wide-Awake
busied himself with the hopeless attempt of improving the
flavour of a Bologna sausage by broiling slices of it upon
the stones of the fire-place. The fact is that Wide-Awake
was very far from verifying his name upon that occasion—
You really wondered if his name was not Fast-Asleep,
and how he didn't stumble over Lucia, or set Ellie upon
the table in place of the cheese, or do some other foolish
thing, so evident was his confusion of mind. At last the
tea was made, and a few broken cups being produced, and
as many cracked plates, the company sat down to make
themselves comfortable.
It was a long time before Lucia could repress her agitated
feeling of gratitude at such kindness. Ellie forced
her to eat, however, and the hot tea seemed to give her
strength.
“Now, Lucia,” said Wide-Awake, “I consider myself
treated bad—I do. Here you are a sufferin' for fire and
all, and you don't drop a line to me, when you know you
promised.”
“Oh I couldn't, Sam!” “Lucia said, “I was ashamed
—I am old enough not to be a burden to—”
“A burden! who says you are a burden! why you
don't eat more'n a sparrow; and as to the old, I suspect
you ain't upwards of seven—are you?”
This was so obviously a witticism that a sad smile came
to Lucia's face.
“I'm double seven, Sam,” she said, “I'm fourteen; and
that is too old to be begging. Oh, I can't!” she said,
with touching earnestness, “it makes me miserable!”
“Well don't, then,” said Wide-Awake, “and we'll say
no more about it. Some mornin' I'll read in the papers
that you froze here in this old trap; and the day I read
it, I'll go and spend my last money in a razor, and draw
straight. That's what I'm goin' to do.”
“Oh, Sam!” said Lucia, coloring—
“I will!”
“Kill yourself! Oh, that is a dreadful sin—but you are
jesting. Ellie showed me what a dreadful sin it is—it is
flying in the face of the Almighty—I read in her Bible.
Oh, if I only had a Bible!”
“What would you do with it?” said Wide-Awake”—
read it?”
“Oh, yes! It would be such a consolation to me. It
seems so sweet ever since we had that talk together,
Ellie,” said Lucia, sadly.
“Very good,” said Wide-Awake to himself; “she shall
have a Bible if I have to steal the money. I wonder if
stealin' one out o' the store would be a sin?”
This problem proving too deep for Wide-Awake, he
gave it up, and again struck into the conversation.
The reader may imagine how much Lucia was encouraged
and strengthened by this warm exhibition of regard
upon the part of her kind child-friends. For Wide-Awake
was a mere child—a poor child, like the two girls
—and the three represented not inaptly that singular
league which the poor so often enter into, for mutual
defence against the wind and cold and storm, and the
grim demon want. Let it be said of the poor in simple
words, which yet embrace all that is necessary, that they
help each other with heart and hand—and are not repelled
by the cold atmosphere which so often chills the charity
of others.
So the children comforted the child, Lucia; and when
they left her, promising to come soon again, she was not
so sad, and her heart relieved itself in tears of thanks, with
which were mingled silent blessings. Sitting upon the
low bench, she leaned her head upon her hand, and her
tears flowed again; and if that ever recurring pride erected
its head, she turned away from it, and longed for one thing
only—a Bible, only a Bible!
15. CHAPTER XV.
AUNT PHILLIS IN HER CASTLE.
It is a strange thing when a poor child's first and most
earnest want in the wide world is a Bible—only a Bible.
Yet this was Lucia's want. Since that morning when
Ellie had put her arms round her neck, and cried, and said
to her, “Not believe in God! Oh, Lucia! how unhappy
you must be!” her heart had felt a new and strange
warmth, a singular and unknown yearning, for that full
belief which was a defence against all woe, and poverty
and suffering. She could not understand the strange sensation
which had accompanied her through wind and cold,
through hunger and grief—the sensation which burned
in her heart like a mysterious fire which nothing could
extinguish;—she could not understand that a higher voice
than any on this earth had spoken to her;—she could not
know that those words “When the Lord turned again
the captivity of Zion we were like them that dream,” described
enemy is broken: and who seeing a light, feeling a vital
warmth, are yet doubtful of their meaning, and cry out
for more, more light! more light!
That light which her heart longed for was to be found
only in the Word of Him who had spoken to her—in his
Bible. Oh, if she only had a Bible! Ellie came and read
to her often, and she would take Ellie's volume, and read
it, shivering in the cold, for hours, with nothing but the
tattered counterpane around her; she would retain it
often until Ellie came to get it, sobbing and crying and
praying, as she read—but that was not enough. Oh! for
a Bible of her own, to carry in her bosom always, and
never put away from her—to read, and study, and hang
over day and night, consoled by its promises, and by its
tender words of pardon and forgiveness! Oh, for a Bible
of her own—only a Bible!
She rose and looked around her poor room, as if some
magic would supply the object of her longing. Then
raising her hands to her face, she wiped away two tears
which hung upon her long silky lashes, and uttered a deep
sigh.
Then suddenly a thought seemed to occur to her, and
she turned toward the door, and went out, and descended
the stairs.
The bitter wind made her shiver and shrink, for the
child had scarcely anything but the old worn frock, thin
and flimsy, to protect her from the cold. She uttered no
sound, however, and continued her way toward the steps,
descending into Aunt Phillis' cellar. She paused here a
sun was now struggling through mist, and sighed again.
Without further emotion, she then descended the steps,
and knocked at Aunt Phillis' door. A faint voice bade
her come in, and she pulled the latchet, which was made
of a strap, and entered the abode of Aunt Phillis.
Aunt Phillis was sick.
Since the day, when following Ellie through the snow,
we entered with her the humble dwelling of the old negro
woman, Aunt Phillis had continued to go through her
regular occupation of washer and ironer, with little care for
the cold, little regard for the most biting wind. With that
industry which characterizes her class, she had labored
assiduously, and not eaten the bread of idleness—perhaps,
because if she had essayed to do so, she would have been
without any bread at all. In her small room she had carried
on all those numerous ceremonies, which are practised
in the profession of those who prepare the articles of
clothing, in which all classes of the community present
themselves before the world—and, singing at her toil, had
passed the long, gloomy days with hope and content, and
that sunshine which never fails to pour in on the active
spirit, busy at its appointed toil.
But one day, when Aunt Phillis rose up in the morning,
a sort of mist seemed to pass before her eyes, and she
felt a faintness, as she set busily about her morning task,
which she had never experienced before. On the preceding
evening she had been far up to the other end of the
city, with her large flat basket full of clothes, and had
nearly been blown away by the wind upon her return.
her through and through—and that old blood, thinned by
so many years of toil, had arrested itself in its flow, and
lingered, and debated whether it should go on as before,
feeding the subtle and invisible essence of life, or flow no
more forever.
A close observer might have seen that the old woman
was treading upon that verge which separates life and
death; going from the real world, in which she had lived
nearly the appointed time, given her by God, to that other
land where there is no appointed time—where there is
neither poor nor rich—neither black nor white; where the
smile of the Saviour welcomes all who are true of heart,
who come to him for refuge. Sitting down, the old
woman thought long, and falling into a waking dream,
saw all her life pass before her—and who knows what
throbs of genuine love and happiness made the old heart
leap again. She remembered everything, but thought
chiefly of her days in church, when the warmth at the old
heart seemed to make her young again, driving back all
the creeping shadows of age and weakness.
For some days her weakness remained much as it was,
and, in spite of all her struggles, she was almost unable
to do any of her accustomed work. She received many
visits from sympathizing friends, and they duly performed
her washing and ironing—for this branch of poor
cling to each other with peculiar tenacity. So the days
had passed, and Aunt Phillis had each morning risen, and
dressed herself with feeble hands, and set about her work,
and then desisted: and it was just as she had taken her
without ceremony, and asked if any one was sick there.
This was Doctor Fossyl—and Aunt Phillis had promptly
replied that nobody was sick, though she was “poorly,
thank God!”—that being the African mode of exhibiting
resignation, and returning thanks for all dispensations.
Dr. Fossyl had rudely made his diagnosis, declared the
patient decidedly unwell, and informed her, that unless she
took care of herself, she would not need him any more.
Then promising roughly to call again, he had departed.
The reader will observe that this was but an hour or
two before the meeting in Lucia's chamber, and accordingly,
when Lucia descended to Aunt Phillis' apartment,
she found that lady still reflecting upon the apparition of
Doctor Fossyl.
Aunt Phillis was seated by the fire, with a white handkerchief
bound around her head, and was regarding from
time to time a clothes-horse, upon which hung a very, very
few clothes—all she had been able to prepare that morning.
Overcome by weakness, she had been compelled to
sit down. From time to time her eyes would wander
from the clothes-horse to the appurtenances of the room;
and this investigation seemed to be for the purpose of
convincing herself that everything was in its place. The
truth is, that Aunt Phillis prided herself upon the adornments
of her apartment.
Over the fire-place and the tall mantel-piece, which
boasted a miscellaneous collection of hymn books, pepper
pods, clothes-pins, cups, saucers and jars—over this mantel-piece,
hung two pictures in veneered frames, the said
striking in design. One represented St. Catherine taking
an æriel voyage, with the assistance of two chubby and
rosy-faced angelic beings—the other depicting Peter, up
to his knees in the sea, and stretching out his hands for
help. In the corner an old press was sacred to the
thousand pet articles which Aunt Phillis set most store
by, and this was never opened in the presence of her most
intimate friends. This was the old lady's mystery—and
she guarded the cracked glass and china, and the old
mugs and knives and forks there—to say nothing of the
apples, cakes, preserves and pickles—with a jealousy which
often caused her to be considered quite “a trial” to her
friends. As to the clothes adornments of Aunt Phillis'
chamber, we have already declared our inability to
describe those miscellaneous articles—which is perhaps a
very fortunate circumstance, inasmuch as we should be
compelled to attempt a sketch of all, which would involve
an examination of those mysteries of the female toilette,
which it is not proper for the profane to consider.
All these objects were embraced by Aunt Phillis'
careful and housewife-like survey; and then her thoughts
returned to the rough winter, and were about to busy
themselves with that unpromising topic, when Lucia's
knock attracted the old lady's attention, and raising her
voice, she had bidden the visitor enter.
16. CHAPTER XVI.
THE OLD DAYS AND THE NEW.
Lucia availed herself of the permission accorded by
the old woman, and coming in, closed the door carefully,
and approached the old woman, whose sight latterly had
begun to fail her.
The child held out her hand, which the old woman
pressed in her own, and said gently:
“Good morning, Aunt Phillis—I am Lucia, you
know.”
“Lord bless you, chile!” said Aunt Phillis, heartily.
“I knows you, and many times have I laid my eyes on
you. Poor chile! you look sorry!”
“I'm not very well, this morning—but I thought I
would come down and see you, Aunt Phillis—I heard
you were sick, and I thought I might read some to you,
and I would like it, too. You 'are not much sick, are
you?”
“Well, de Lord knows—God knows my breast do
ache! Well, well! I hope I ain't a complainin' The
work's the thing which makes me mortified.”
“The work?”
“The washin' and ironing', chile! Bless de Lord! I
ain't been able to do nothin'. You know what I does,
chile, is common work, though I has some nice things,
too. I done in my time all sorts o' work, but 'taint
everybody that can plete and flute—'bleeged to have
flutin' irons to run in the little hollers, you know. I recklect,”
counting on her fingers: “I recklect 'in old times there
was a mighty heap o' pletin' goin' on. I thought master
never would get enough o' shirts pleted—he! he!—seems
to me, had mor' a' half-a-hunderd! Sich pletes! we was
at de Springs, and I made twelve dollars by pletin!
Soon as they see my pletes, they send to me—all the
gentlemen—whole hamper baskets, crammed and crowdin'
to be pleted! Well, well! We was young people then,
and we didn't think 'bout nothin' but dancin' and 'stravagance,
and vainty! Wonder if white people is so now?
Sich things the ladies weared! Dresses all covered with
silver spangles, and high rows o' curls, and stockin's all
flowered over—I thought I never should a' got done
washin' and ironin' o' ladies' stockins'! They mos' put
on a pair at breakfas', dinner, 'n' supper—for the skirts
was short, and the gentlemen see 'em—and they all was
silk! Sich a washin' and a ironin', with frills an' pletes,
and flutin', and doin' up lace collars, and inside hank-shaws,
I never did see—no, never, God knows, long as I
have been livin'!”
And Aunt Phillis shook her head in depreciation of the
times and personages she had been speaking of.
“That was in the old, old times, wasn't it, Aunt Phillis?”
said Lucia, who had taken her seat, opposite the
old woman.
“Yes, indeed, honey! A sight ago—mos' a hunderd
years, I reckon! What fine times they was!” said the
old woman, with the logical inconsistency of the negro
character; “but they was mighty little religion, chile—
like things. The Lord forgive me, we cullered folks
wern't no better'n the rest! What a time it was! Well,
well, the Lord be thanked, them times is all gone, and
joy go with 'em.”
“You must be very old, now, Aunt Phillis,” said
Lucia, who experienced a sad pleasure in hearing the old
woman run on.
“I guess I is, chile! De Lord, he knows how old I
is! I bin see generation after generation come up, and
git cut down like the grass that's dried up. I'm goin'
on my long journey, chile.”
“Oh, no, Aunt Phillis—you are very hearty, ain't you?”
“No, de Lord knows I ain't, chile. I is done thinkin'
'bout anything in this world. I is beginnin' to think
'bout t'other worl', chile. Dis is a mighty wicked worl',
de Lord, he knows, and I'm done with it, an' all dat's in
it, chile—I'm goin' home!”
With which words Aunt Phillis began with great feeling
to croon a hymn to herself.
Unfortunately for her argument, however, and as
though to prove that as long as we are in the world
it is proper to attend to the material things of existence,
Aunt Phillis heard, as she concluded, the cry of
“charcoal!” without, and requested Lucia immediately
to go out, and stop the vender of that article. Lucia
accordingly left the cellar, and in a few minutes the
loud cry of “charcoal, ladies, charcoal!” ceased, and
the charcoal merchant appeared at the head of the steps.
He was a young African, with a smutty face, and a
world was banded in hostility. He carried his stock in
trade in a rectangular cart, constructed of strips of timber,
after the manner of a hencoop, and this machine was
drawn by an ancient and solemn looking donkey, who
seemed to have some time since reached that age when
donkeys, like men, cease to wonder at anything. That
donkey was evidently past surprise of any description,
and would have stabled himself in a cathedral, without
once looking at a single object, if the Pope himself had
been erected on the altar.
The charcoal vender ducked his head, and entered
Aunt Phillis' presence—that lady receiving him with
inflexible dignity.
“Now young man,” said Aunt Phillis: “don't you be
a-deceivin' me, and sayin' charcoal's high, for I know it's
no sich thing. How much a bar'l?”
“It's—”
“Don't say mor'n eight in pence!”
“Oh, ma'am,” said the charcoal boy, quite overcome
by this energetic address: “its fifopence, ma'am.”
“Fifopence!” cried Aunt Phillis, in great horror; “did
anybody ever! Now, young man! jest listen to me, while
I tell my mind to you!”
“Leastway ma'am its a eight in pence,” said the charcoal
martyr, who trembled before the irate judge.
“G'ime a bar'l,” said Aunt Phillis; “and next time
young man, look sharp, before you go about deceivin' the
commun'ty!”
The charcoal vender disappeared—unhitched his donkey,
being between the shafts, which position is considered
absolutely essential to a valid sale of charcoal—and this
ceremony being gone through with, proceeded to fill the
barrel which he afterwards brought in and emptied in the
box prepared for it.
The expedition with which this was done highly pleased
Aunt Phillis, who set a plate of cold bones and cornbread
before the youthful charcoal vender, whereat his
countenance lit up with radiant satisfaction.
“Now you set there, up on them steps, 'an eat,” said
Aunt Phillis, “an' thank the Lord, not me.”
Whether the thanks were returned or not remains a
mystery—but certain it is that the last morsel was devoured,
after which the smutty youth ducked his head
with an injured air, and soon was crying again in the
distance.
“Charcoal!” cried Aunt Phillis, in derision, “I hear a
parrot cryin' `charcoal' to'ther day, down there jest by
the market, and a-sayin', `Julia!' tell I thought I should
a laughed myself away a-listenin' to him. They was too
on em, chile, bless you, and one try to sing like that crow
'ut used to live down on the bridge, and roll his eyes and
holler out to `Bob,' when Bob come back from market,
shakin' of his wings, and makin' b'lieve he wasn't hungry,
only playin'! I hear them parrots singin'. One singed
a song, and to'ther cried `that's mighty purty singin'!'
and I never see sech ugly things as I'm a livin' bein'.
Split ther tongues, and crows kin do the same as I am
toll. He! he! `that's mighty purty singin'!' and I
there right down in the street, they made one laugh so,
chile—the Lord have mercy!”
With which account of her experience in the parrot
line, Aunt Phillis turned to other subjects, and surveyed
the charcoal.
“It's Providence sent that boy,” said the old lady, “I'm
jest out, and you, child, was down here for to run out and
git it. But yit, de Lord knows when I'll git to usin' that
there charcoal.”
“You mean washing and ironing, don't you, Aunt
Phillis?”
“Yes, chile.”
“Let me help you, wont you?”
“You, chile?”
“Yes, Aunt Phillis. I will help you—go for water—
and wash and iron, and do anything,” said Lucia, tremulously;
“I will ask nothing but a little to eat:—I—I—
that is I hardly know what to do, and I—don't like to be
a burden to my friends.”
“Why that's right, chile; but kin you wash an' ir'n?”
“I think I could, Aunt Phillis.”
“Poor little hands—poor chile! you ain't got nothin'!”
There was so much kind and motherly expression in
these words that Lucia's eyes filled with tears.
“You shell have somethin' as long's I's got anything,”
said Aunt Phillis; “an' if you choose to help me, de Lord
knows I will take it as a 'commodation. Come down in
de mornin' an I'll fin' the things. Them lace undersleeves
there 'longing' to a little lady jest about your age, as
kin do 'em up better 'n I kin.”
“Oh, thank you, Aunt Phillis,” said Lucia, who caught
at this means of procuring her daily bread without accepting
Sam's or Ellie's assistance, which was as we have said,
bitterly repugnant to her pride: “Oh, thank you, and I'll
come down early. Now, Aunt Phillis, would you please
to lend me your Bible—I haven't got one, and I do so
long to read.”
“My Bible! that I will, and bless the day you come
a-askin' after 't. It's a lovely sight to see the young
a-seekin' of the Lord. Read some to me, chile! There's
the Bible on the shelf—read, read it—anywhere, anywhere,
chile! it's all good.”
And Lucia got the Bible and opened it, and read the
Psalm which commences, “Lord thou hast been our dwelling
place in all generations.”
As the child read on in her low earnest voice, the old
woman nodded, and bent about, and drank in the words
with a pleasure and satisfaction which made the old face
glow.
“For a thousand years in thy sight are but as yesterday
when it is past,” read the child, “and as a watch in the
night. Thou carriest them away as with a flood, they are
as a sleep; in the morning they are like grass which
groweth up. In the morning it flourisheth and groweth
up, in the evening it is cut down and withered.”
“Cut down and withered,” repeated the old woman, in
a low voice, “bless de Lord, but we grows agin.”
“For we are consumed by thine anger, and by thy
iniquities before thee, our secret sins in the light of thy
countenance. For all our days are passed away in thy
wrath. We spend our years as a tale that is told.”
The child's head drooped as she read those words, and
she murmured something which the old woman did not
hear.
“The days of our years are threescore years and ten;
and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is
their strength labor and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and
we fly away.”
“And we fly away!” repeated Aunt Phillis, in a low
voice.
The child read the whole, and then closed the book.
“The sound o' that makes me feel a blessed feelin',” said
the old woman, “no matter how dreadful it is, we knows
it is washed away!”
And Aunt Phillis began to sing to herself, in that low
touching tone, which those who have heard it once never
forget. Lucia thought she had better leave the old woman
in this happy mood—and so taking the Bible, which she
knew Aunt Phillis did not want at the moment, she stole
softly out, and ascended to her poor chamber with her
treasure.
A bran new Bible already lay there on the table.
17. CHAPTER XVII.
ELLIE'S DRESS DOES NOT FIT HER.
Lucia could not doubt for a moment who had sent her
the Bible, and she knelt down and prayed, and poured
out her whole heart fervently, and rose with a lighter
heart.
All that despondency which had preyed upon her spirit,
was passing away, and the light of that new life, which
dawned upon her, flooded her heart with unspeakable
gratitude and thanks. God had heard her. And if, with
the pure gratitude of the child to heaven, some tender
gratitude toward the rough, but kind-hearted and true
boy were mingled, none will find fault with her for that—
even though this exhibition of his love for her, made her
cheek flush with pleasure.
She did not know that Wide-Awake had gone and entered—contrary
to his wishes and fixed principles—once
more into the newspaper business; and drawn a week's
salary in advance, and hastened to purchase the Bible with
the whole of it, trusting to Providence for meat and bread,
for those seven days! And such faith never is in vain.
Oh, friend, that readest these unworthy lines; for heaven
watches over those who love so truly, and give nobly;
and the invisible messengers of air and earth bring food
to them.
So Lucia had her own Bible, and her warm tears fell
upon it, for her heart was melted in her bosom, and she
cried—a lonely child, but not alone with that most precious
and all the arrows of adversity, it filled her heart with
warmth and happiness.
She repaired on the next morning to Aunt Phillis'
cellar, and commenced the task she had undertaken. She
brought water from the old pump, some distance down the
street, and fixed the irons, and then with Aunt Phillis
looking serenely and kindly upon her, applied herself to
the momentous task. Aunt Phillis was scarcely able to
leave her bed, by now, but managed to rise, and iron a
shirt at intervals, as though she wished to persuade herself
that she was not incapacitated from work. But even
one shirt was a hard task to the feeble old woman, and
Lucia insisted on her sitting down.
The child performed her work so well, that by noon she
had accomplished an amount of work, which Aunt Phillis
declared really astonishing. And then the simple dinner
was prepared, and, thereafter, Lucia got ready to carry
home the clothes which were “due” that evening.
Aunt Phillis gave her the most explicit directions, and
she had no difficulty in finding the houses. Going from
street to street over the frozen snow, in the dim afternoon,
the child found herself thrown with a new and strange
class of persons, whose homes she had never before
entered. The lace undersleeves, to which Aunt Phillis
had referred, seemed to be ardently expected by the rosy
child, who ran forward to receive them from Lucia, in the
rich home of her mother.
“Oh!” the little maiden cried, “it ain't Aunt Phillis!
Who are you?—you are prettier than Aunt Phillis.”
“My name is Lucia,” was the smiling reply; and unconsciously
the eyes of the child wandered to the splendid
furniture of the wealthy mansion.
“Lucia! Oh, what a pretty name! And you are
very pretty, Lucia, prettier than I am—only my frock's
nicer than yours!”
And the little maiden smoothed down her beautiful, rich
frock, and gazed with pride upon its embroidered flounces.
“We 're going to have a child's party to night, Lucia,”
said the little damsel, going up to Lucia, and looking at
her curiously with her great eyes; “don't you wish you
were to be here?”
“No—I think not,” said Lucia, softly; “I hope you
will be happy.”
“Oh, we are sure to have a delightful time. Mamma
has made a lovely cake, and it 's all covered with icing—
and Uncle Robert's coming to play games for us, and
make tableaus—I wonder what they are—and Cousin
Lucy 's coming, too; and we 're to have a dance, and—
oh! we 'll be so happy!—can't you stay and eat some
cake, Lucia. I am sure you are good, because you are so
pretty.”
“I don't think I can stay,” faltered Lucia, whose heart
was touched by the kind mirth of the little girl, “I have
my work at home to do.”
Work! Oh, what a pity! Do you work? Oh, yes!
you mean your French lesson—how I hate my French
lesson! But I have n't got any to-night! This is my
new dress, and we 're to be so happy! Mamma 's given
me a new lace collar, and she says we may light the chandelier,
been forgetting my undersleeves. How nicely they are
done—how nice I 'll look. Good bye!”
And running up stairs with the coveted articles of
clothing, the child disappeared, the kind smile still upon
her face, turned toward Lucia.
The closing door shut out all that warmth and happiness;
but Lucia had in her heart a larger and truer
happiness still—which no cold could deprive her of. No
bitter or repining thought for a moment entered her mind,
and she said only, “What a happy little girl, and what a
tender voice she has!” And so the child went back to
her cold, bare room, and lighting her piece of candle, read
her Bible, shivering as she read—while under the brilliant
chandelier, the kind little maiden romped, and laughed, and
played, and told her friends what a sweet looking girl had
come “just before dark, to bring her things.” And then
Uncle Robert fixed the tableaus, and they were as merry
a parcel of happy children as the light of joy had ever
shone upon.
When Lucia covered herself with the old tattered
counterpane, and sank to sleep, with a last murmured
prayer, her heart was full of warmth, and joy, and love,
such as no words could utter. Sleeping, her parted lips
still smiled, as infant lips do in the downy cradles, which
fond mothers, bending down above until the balmy breath
is on their cheeks, press to their own with whispered
blessings. Sleeping, the hand of love seemed pressed
upon the eyelids, and the dews of slumber softened the
tender features, rounding every line—and peace was in
of heaven.
The child rose early and repaired to Aunt Phillis' cellar.
But that indefatigable matron was already up, and
had made her own fire, and set the kettle on for breakfast.
“Bless de Lord, honey,” said Aunt Phillis, feebly, “I 's
quite strong yit, an' I kin do all but wash an' ir'n. The
strength in the arms is gone, and bendin' over makes my
back ache—God knows my back do ache—but I kin see to
breakfas'.”
“I am glad you feel so well, Aunt Phillis,” said Lucia.
“I ain't well, chile—I 'm poorly, thank God, an' to his
name be the praise, amen! Stop, chile!” added the old
woman, “don't you be a-gittin' out that clothes-horse.”
“Why, Aunt Phillis?”
“There ain't a-goin to be no washin' here to-day.”
Lucia's look asked the reason.
“'Cause sister Marthy and the rest is comin' to hold a
little pray'r meetin',” said aunt Phillis, understanding
and replying to the look, “brother Wilkison's comin',
too, an' I want you to set right about gettin' ready the
things.”
“The things, aunt Philis?”
“The very things, chile—de Lord he knows it would'nt
be a right pray'r meetin' if de bretheren had'nt somethin'
after all thayr singin'.”
With which aunt Phillis gave Lucia sundry directions—and
after long and dubious reflection, entrusted
her with the keys of the mysterious press, the opening of
which she narrowly and jealously watched
Lucia soon got out the things which aunt Phillis desired:
and then she set to work, under the old lady's
directions, and prepared the material for the collation to
be laid before aunt Phillis' visitors.
“Them's all mine,” said aunt Phillis, with satisfaction.
“I ain't come on the 'sociation yit.”
“The what, aunt Phillis?”
“The 'sociation, chile. De Lord help us! ain't you
hearn 'bout the Social Band?”
Lucia said she had not.
“We dresses,” said aunt Phillis, plunging boldly into
the middle of things, “we dresses in white bonnets, trim'
wid black—white cuffs an' cape, and dress of black likewise.
We pays a eight in pence 'bout ev'ry month or so,
an' sister Beel is cash-er. When we's sick they comes an'
sets up with us, an' the 'sociation pays, don't care what it
is. They does all nice—so nice! an' buries you wid
pleasure—they does;—its mighty pleasant now, I do
assure you, chile!”
Lucia said that the association must be a great assistance
to the sick, and then finished the preparations, and
asked aunt Phillis if she needed her father.
“No my chile,” said the old lady, “sister Beel 'll do
the rest, an' you oughtn't to make your young cheeks thin
a-workin' all the day. Set down now an' eat a good
breakfas', an' then the brethren will be 'bout comin'.”
Lucia drank some tea and ate a biscuit, and then told
aunt Phillis good-bye, and went up to her room. Just as
she sat down before the small fire of splinters, a knock
came at her door, and Ellie entered, smiling sweetly, and
pleasure, and the hand which she placed on Lucia's head,
gently caressed the dark hair.
The children kissed each other, as their custom was,
and then Ellie held up the bundle and placed it in Lucia's
hands.
“Look what a pretty present a lady gave me, Lucia!”
she said.
“Oh!” said Lucia, unrolling it, “why, Ellie, it is a
warm, good dress.”
“Yes, it is warm and good, and I am so glad! You
know your old one is so thin, Lucia!”
“My old one!”
“The one you have on. I had that dress, and it is a
great deal too large for me. Miss Aurelia gave it to me—
and I want you to have it, dear Lucia. I will not.”
And Ellie's face was radiant with pleasure and
goodness.
Her pleasure in offering her only comfortable dress to
her friend was as evident as anything could possibly
be, and for a moment Lucia remained overcome by her
question, and remained silent.
18. CHAPTER XVIII.
DOCTOR FOSSYL AND HIS THEORIES.
Lucia, as we have said, could not speak for some
moments; but then recovering her voice, sat down, and,
bursting into tears, sobbed:
“Oh, Ellie! how much better you are than I am!”
She cried more than ever as she spoke, and Ellie felt
like crying, too.
Lucia wept on and covered her face, and shook with
emotion.
“Oh, what are you crying for! what makes you cry,
Lucia!” she exclaimed, throwing her arms around the
child's neck, “please do not cry!”
“It is because you are so kind,” murmured Lucia,
“you and everybody. Oh, I cannot, cannot take your
dress.
“Indeed, indeed you must, Lucia,” said Ellie, “I do
not want it, and I know you do. I saw you going out
in the cold yesterday evening, and you had no wrapping,
and I thought you would have frozen. Oh, indeed,
indeed, Lucia! it makes me happier to give my dress to
you than to wear it myself; and you will not make me
feel badly by refusing it! It is much too large for me—
I am so small—but it will just fit you with a little off of
the skirt. Dear Lucia! indeed, indeed, I do not
want it!”
And Ellie smoothed the disordered hair of her friend
of the child.
Lucia could as yet only sob and utter inarticulate expressions
of thanks: but she soon raised her head, and
looked at Ellie with her sad smile, which, indeed, seemed
to be a peculiarity alike of both the children.
“You are a dear kind girl, Ellie,” she said, “but,
indeed, I cannot take the dress. Ellie, I don't know if
it's pride—maybe a sinful pride—or if it is my love for
you: but nothing could make me take from you the only
warm dress you have. The one you have on is very thin;
and this will be so nice and comfortable. Indeed, I do
not want it, Ellie—I am not—very—cold. Please do
not ask me any more, and don't think hard of me for not
taking it!”
With which words Lucia leaned her head upon Ellie's
shoulder and pressed the hand she held to her lips.
As they sat thus a great artist would have rejoiced to
have seen them, and to have made them beautiful forever
upon canvass. If love and tenderness and goodness filling
every feature—eyes and lips, and brow—make faces
beautiful; then the countenances of Ellie and Lucia were
more fair and lovely than the happiest dreams.
This tenderness and affection was so unmistakeable that
it caused something like a faint tinge of color to enter the
cheek of the sallow individual who, looking through the
crack of the door, witnessed the scene, and heard the conversation
of the children.
Doctor Fossyl had come up stairs with his “shoes of
silence”—a not unusual circumstance with him; and
and without ceremony, looked and listened, with the cynical
desire to hear something to support his theory of
human meanness and selfishness. As the struggle between
Lucia and Ellie proceeded, the physician's sneer
had faded, his eye-brows had retreated from each other,
and his yellow cheek had almost turned to comely red.
Surely this man must have had in his heart, when young,
some stuff which had long since been smothered, or trodden
out by his poor cheerless philosophy of scorn, suspicion,
and incredulity in human motives.
The expression of his countenance as he listened, was
not at all such as those who knew him were accustomed to
find in it. An almost tender smile rose to the thin and
bloodless lips, and the eyes, under their shaggy brows,
grew soft and pitiful.
In a moment, however, this expression disappeared,
and his face assumed its habitual coldness. He knocked
rudely at the door and said, with an affectation of having
just reached the spot:
“Who is in this room! what voices are those?”
Ellie rose and went to the door, and curtseyed.
“This is Lucia's room, sir,” she said; “Lucia is my
friend.”
“Your friend! hum! Let us see this Miss Lucia!”
And the surly physician thrust his head in at the door
and scowled at Lucia. She replied to this stare with a
look so soft and humble that the cynic drew back growling.
“Well, very well!” he said, “that's all mighty fine!
is a luxury of the rich, who, as everybody knows, are very
tender and friendly and disinterested! Come, you, madam
—Ellie is your name, I believe—I have no time to lose.
Where's your father?”
“He's my uncle, sir—he's in the room here.”
And Ellie went before the physician, and entered the
apartment of Joe Lacklitter.
Uncle Joe was sitting as usual before the small fire,
with a blanket around his shoulders, and Charley was
painfully struggling with the assistance of a slate and
pencil to arrive at the solution of the problem:—What
would fifty lady-cakes, two for a cent, come to in money?
This sum had been “set” for him by Ellie, and the youthful
brains of Charley were in a state of lamentable confusion
on the subject of the solution. The sight of Doctor
Fossyl did not aid him, and in the terror of the moment
he dashed down an answer which raised the price of lady-cakes
astonishingly in the market.
“How are you to-day, Lacklitter?” said the Doctor,
“as to that young man there who is staring at me with
his mouth open, like a stuck pig, he's always well!”
And Doctor Fossyl scowled at Charley in so terrible
a way, that the young gentleman dropped his slate and
flew for refuge to Ellie's apron.
“Oh, yes, I'm a monster and an ogre,” said the Doctor,
“I feed on children—I eat 'em whole! I'd like to broil
you, sir, and serve you up at breakfast!”
Having thus annihilated Charley, Doctor Fossyl turned
again to uncle Joe and growled.
“I'm obleeged to you, Doctor,” said Joe, “I think I'm
better 'n' better.”
“Why don't you get well?”
“I think I will soon, sir!”
“Soon! Let me see your tongue!”
Joe extended that member.
“Furry and bad,” said Doctor Fossyl, “you're going
entirely too fast. What do you eat?”
“Mighty little, sir—I ain't got any appetite yet—
least-ways—”
“You'd better not have one, or if you do, you'd better
curb it;” said the doctor. “Does this child cook for
you?”
And he pointed to Ellie, who sat quietly in the corner.
“Yes, sir,” Joe said, “she is a good, loving girl, and
we're gittin' on very well. Mr. Sansoucy's very kind, and
the Lord be thanked.”
This speech seemed to anger Doctor Fossyl, and he
growled contemptuously,
“Mr. Sansoucy! a shallow fellow, who knows nothing!
He thinks it mighty fine, I suppose, to be `charitable!'
I suppose, you, Miss,” he added, turning to Ellie, “are
going to fall in love with this fine Seigneur, and set your
cap at him?”
“Sir!” said Ellie, quite bewildered.
“You pretend you don't understand!”
“Understand, sir!”
“Bah! what affectation! How old are you?”
“I'm eleven, sir.”
“It don't attack 'em till they're older,” said the cynic.
Ellie gazed with a puzzled look upon the doctor.
“Very well,” he said, “that's mighty fine—what noise
is that? What terrible sound is that I hear?”
“I think it's Aunt Phillis, holding her prayer meeting,
sir.”
“Her prayer meeting?”
“Yes, sir!”
Doctor Fossyl's sallow countenance grew absolutely
livid with disgust, and he seemed to wish that an earthquake
would swallow the hypocrites whose noise annoyed
him. Nevertheless, no earthquake came, and the hymn
resounded from Aunt Phillis' cellar, louder and louder,
until the old house was filled with it.
“Is that the old woman I went down to see?” the
doctor gasped.
“Yes, sir,” said Ellie.
“She is holding a prayer meeting?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I renounce her,” said Doctor Fossyl, stretching
forth his hand, wrathfully; “she may change her physician.
I'm sick of hypocrisy, and yet this is no worse than that
of your fine Mr. Sansoucy. Bah! how sick it makes me!
What are you staring at the door and listening for, Miss?”
he growled, looking at Ellie.
Ellie did not reply, but, rising, looked more intently at
the door, with a joyous light in her eyes. A step was then
heard, a knock came to the door, and Ellie, running forward,
met upon the threshold, with her sweetest smile, the
gentleman, whose merits were in progress of discussion—
Mr. Sansoucy.
19. CHAPTER XIX.
THE HYMN.
“Ah, Ellie! my good little Ellie! always glad to see
me,” said Sansoucy, entering, “and Doctor Fossyl! How
do you do, Doctor? and you, Joe, and Charley?”
Having distributed which comprehensive salute, Mr.
Sansoucy sat down.
“I do well,” growled Doctor Fossyl.
“That is an agreeable circumstance,” said Sansoucy.
“How's the patient?”
“Getting better.”
“He'll soon be out?”
“Yes.”
“I'm glad.”
“And I don't care!”
“Oh, you don't care for anything, my dear Doctor,
you're a philosopher.”
“And, therefore, you despise me.”
“No, I'm nearly one myself.”
“A pretty philosopher!”
“Who don't believe in the lights of the Eighteenth Century,
you would add. Well, Doctor, don't let us resume
that subject—you are right, however, I don't!”
And Mr. Sansoucy smiled.
“Here is a little philosopher, who strikes me as superior
to D'Alembert, Voltaire, Diderot, and the whole
crowd.”
“Who are you talking about?”
“Ellie.”
“That child?”
“Yes.”
“A philosopher, forsooth—of the Sansoucy school,
doubtless!”
“Why, Doctor, what a biting wit you have, this morning!
No, Ellie is not of the without-care school—she is
rather of the earnest persuasion.”
And Mr. Sansoucy applauded his jest with favorable
laughter. There was, as we have said, about this gentleman,
a good humor that was better than wit; and certainly
no wit, however fiery and brilliant, ever produced
the cheerful influence which his good nature did. Even
Doctor Fossyl seemed to feel that, judging by its fruits,
his own philosophy of life was narrower and less true
than this opposed to it—but like all men convinced
against their will, he refused indignantly to be persuaded.
“Yes,” he said: “you've got a very enthusiastic follower
in this young miss, who, it seems, is the paragon
of perfection and human goodness. I wish you joy, and
advise you to train her up in the way she should go, and
bestow your lordship's hand upon the maiden.”
“My hand!”
“Yes, marry her!”
The idea seemed to tickle Mr. Sansoucy very much,
and he laughed heartily. Then apparently reflecting that
this exhibition of merriment might be misconstrued by
his opponent, he said:
“Faith! Doctor, I really do not think your advice so
bad, after all.”
“You acknowledge then—?”
“That I love Ellie? Yes, my dear Doctor. Don't I,
Ellie?”
And Mr. Sansoucy smoothed the child's hair with a
kind hand, and smiled.
“Indeed, sir, I love you for all your goodness,” Ellie
said, simply.
“Mighty pretty!” sneered Doctor Fossyl; “coo-coo!
coo-coo! two doves! Come, let me see how people
make love!”
Sansoucy smiled, and said:
“I really can't oblige you, Doctor—the affection Ellie
and myself feel for each other is already made, though
not perhaps in the mould you think. I'm afraid that
Ellie scarcely stood a fair chance there!”
And Mr. Sansoucy again laughed, but this time with
something like a sigh. Ellie caught the imperceptible
sound, and looked up into the kind face.
“See here, Doctor,” said Sansoucy; “here is the
proof of Ellie's regard. She heard me groan, just now,
and it troubles her.”
“Nonsense!” muttered Doctor Fossyl: “really the
greatest trifler I have ever known, and seems to be proud
of it! Well, sir,” he said aloud: “am I to go on visiting
here?”
“Go on?”
“Yes, I say go on.”
“Why, certainly—until Joe is well.”
“You pay?”
Sansoucy laughed, and said:
“I pay.”
“Very good,” replied Doctor Fossyl, rising. “I'll
come again to-morrow, and prescribe—this patient may
have a month before him yet.”
“So long!”
“Yes—what are you surprised at?”
“Why, at the failure of the great Doctor Fossyl in—”
“Raising a man instantaneously from a fever, you
would say, I suppose. Well, sir, be surprised. I have
no time to talk. I have a hundred visits to pay before
the opera.”
And Doctor Fossyl rose.
As he did so, the loud resounding hymn from Aunt
Phillis' cellar, commenced again, and the walls fairly
shook with it.
“Who is singing, Ellie?” said Mr. Sansoucy; “I
heard something as I came in—what is it?”
“Aunt Phillis has a prayer-meeting, sir,” Ellie said.
“Oh!” said Sansoucy: “the old woman down there!”
“The old hypocritical hag down there!” growled Doctor
Fossyl.
“Hush, Doctor, let us listen to the incantation ceremony,”
said Sausoucy: “listen!”
And the company were silent.
The hymn, which had paused in its flow for a time as
though to gather strength for a more resounding burst,
now soared aloft, and made the windows shake with its
full flood of strange and touching harmony. It was one
of those rude devotional lyrics which seem to have had
their birth and cradle in the great pine forests, among
not of the latter description. A fit accompaniment to its
wild and triumphant cadences would have been the solemn
murmur of those haughty tufts which throw their shadows
on the homely meeting houses buried in the forests, and
surrounded by the simplicity of nature.
As it rose now, it seemed to speak of the country, of
the solemn depths of ancient woods, and its rudeness
made the general effect more striking.
The disconnected words which reached the ears of the
silent auditors, were something like this:
O! glory, halleluia!
O! what ship is this that will take us all home?
O! glory, halleluia!
'Tis the old ship of Zion—halleluia!
'Tis the old ship of Zion—halleluia!
“Do you think she will be able for to take us all home?
O! glory, halleluia!
Do you think she will be able for to take us all home?
O! glory, halleluia!
O yes! she will be able—halleluia!
O yes! she will be able—halleluia!
“She has landed many thousands, and she'll land as many more!
O! glory, halleluia!
She has landed many thousands, and she'll land as many more!
O! glory, halleluia!
She will land them over Jordan—halleluia!
She will land them over Jordan—halleluia!
Come along! come along!—and let's go home
O! glory, halleluia!
Come along! come along!—and let's go home!
O! glory, halleluia!
Our home it is in heaven—halleluia!
Our home it is in heaven—halleluia!
The mournful melody of the negro manner of singing,
gaye a strange effect to this hymn, and when it paused,
there was silence in the chamber of Joe Lacklitter. Before
the cynical physician could utter any of his usual
commentaries, however, the voices commenced again;
and again the solemn hymn resounded. This time it was
one, the burden of which, constantly repeated was:
“Come to Jesus, just now!”
had characterized the former. It had its effect even upon
the physician, and when it ceased, he stood for some
moments without speaking, with a strange impression in
his deep-set eyes.
“Well,” he said at last, “I suppose I have remained
long enough listening to this: I have something else to
attend to.”
“A moment,” said Sansoucy, “tell me first, my dear
Doctor, whether you don't think those rude people down
there happier than you and me?”
“I think nothing!” said Doctor Fossyl, with a sharp
look, “good morning, sir!”
And he went out.
“There goes a man who has fed on food which poisons
us,” murmured Sansoucy, “what a pity!”
20. CHAPTER XX.
CONTAINS AN ACCOUNT OF MONSIEUR GUILLEMOT'S
BANKRUPTCY.
Sansoucy stood thus for some moments, gazing after
the physician, with that wistful, almost melancholy smile,
which gave at times so singular an expression to his countenance;
and then, as though returning once more to the
realms of reality, turned round, and smiled, and patted
Ellie's head, and took his seat beside Joe Lacklitter.
One of Mr. Sansoucy's peculiarities, as we have said,
we believe, already,—or at least should have said—was a
habit of interesting himself in simple things, and unpretending
objects. He might have said, with a great writer,
“I have seen too much of success in life, to take off my
hat and huzza to it, as it passes in its gilt coach, and would
do my little part with my neighbors on foot, that they
should not gape with too much wonder, nor applaud too
loudly. It is the Lord Mayor going in state to mincepies
and the mansion-house! It is poor Jack of Newgate's
procession, with the sheriff and javelin-men, conducting
him on his journey to Tyburn? I look into my heart and
think I am as good as my Lord Mayor, and know I am
as bad as Tyburn Jack.” Sansoucy had seen so much
in his journeyings, and from that singular part of journalist,
that he had grown incredulous of the judgments which
the world formed of the men and things which figure on
the stage of life, and so making for himself an unique philosophy,
had accepted that alone to shape his conduct by.
startling the beholders, and then fade and die—so many
“celebrities” had blazed before him in his day, and then
gone out, that, young in years as he still was, life scarcely
possessed for him those mysteries and illusions, which it
has for the greater part of the world. This feeling had
driven him, as it drives every man who loves the truth, to
a fervid admiration for simplicity and goodness: and it
was in simple scenes, and honest motives, that this gentleman
found his greatest pleasure. He liked to be with
children, and would throw his pen aside, and dismiss his
wearying meditation, to cater their amusement. Their
innocent prattle pleased him, and when once this softer
influence had made itself felt, he became the most delightful
companion for the young—sharing their sports, and
growing young again himself.
Sansoucy had found in Ellie, that simplicity and goodness,
which he bowed before, saluting it as worthiest; and
thus, perhaps, there was more truth than the contrary in
his declaration, that he deserved no thanks for his assistance.
He found in the child, and in Joe Lacklitter, too,
companions such as he desired; and, perhaps, his greatest
pleasure was his visits to the humble abode of the poor
paper-carrier. The reader will judge, in due time, whether
there was not still another hidden and mysterious bond,
which drew him toward Ellie, and the child to him. But
we will not anticipate.
After the departure of Doctor Fossyl, a feeling of comparative
unrestraint and freedom was visible in the countenances
conversation, in which even Charley had his due part.
When Ellie looked at, or answered Mr. Sansoucy, her
face was full of a happy light, and her soft eyes beamed
with that tender gratitude, which perhaps is the most
beautiful expression of the human countenance. Ellie
had in her hand the dress which Lucia could not be prevailed
upon to receive; and this at last became the subject
of one of Mr. Sansoucy's smiling remarks.
“You liked Miss Aurelia, did you, Ellie?” he said;
“you should have seen her when she wore that dress at
the ball the other night! What a mistake young ladies
make when they suppose that gentlemen prefer them
decked out in silks and satins, pearls and diamonds!
They do not believe that men believe—the better portion—that
Is worth a hundred coats of arms.”
the poets, Miss. And so you liked Aurelia?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” said Ellie.
Mr. Sansoucy smiled, and said:
“What feature of her face struck you as the finest?”
“I did not take notice of anything, sir, very well,” Ellie
returned, “it was her goodness I liked so.”
“Then her eyes were the prominent subjects of your
admiration—were they not, Ellie?”
“Her eyes, sir?”
“Yes, I believe the eyes contain more expression than
any other portion of the face.”
“She had lovely blue eyes, I remember, sir.”
“So she has!” said Mr. Sansoucy, sighing and smiling.
“Do you know, Ellie, I am going to fall in love with Miss
Aurelia?”
“In love, sir? Oh, yes—I understand,” Ellie said,
laughing and blushing; “are you, sir?”
“Am I! There you are with your simplicity! I am
very much afraid that I have already done so, madam.
Do you approve of the match? But how I jest!” laughed
Mr. Sansoucy. “What were you doing with your dress?”
“I—I—was—Lucia was looking at it,” said Ellie, not
wishing to tell Mr. Sansoucy of her offer.
“Lucia?” he said.
“Yes, sir—the organ-grinder's daughter, who lives in
yonder—”
“An organ-grinder's daughter!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why, this house is a real hive! Aunt Phillis in the
cellar—you here, Joe—Lucia yonder—and, as I live,
there 's some one walking in the room above!”
“That 's Mr. Gillymore, sir,” Joe said, “and there, he 's
a-comin' down; I heard his door jist now, as he opened it.”
As Joe spoke, steps were heard upon the stairs, and
then steps came down the stairway, and stopped at the
door of Joe's apartment.
“He 's comin' here,” said Joe.
And so it proved.
As he spoke, the door was opened slightly, a head
voice uttered the monysyllable, “ha! ha!”
“Faith!” cried Sansoucy, if it isn't Guillemot!
you live here, Monsieur, mon ami! Is it possible!”
“Monsieur Sansouci!” cried the head, with a strong
French accent, and an unmistakeable emphasis upon the
latter syllable of the journalist's name. “I 'ave ze
plaizir of see Monsieur Sansoucí!”
“Certainly,” said Sansoucy, laughing. Come in—we 're
all friends.”
Monsieur Guillemot opened the door and entered, bowing
and shrugging his shoulders, with a profusion of polite
exclamations. He was a little man, of about forty-five or
fifty, wore a wig elaborately powdered, exhibited a profusion
of frill at his bosom, and his feet were covered with
list slippers of the gaudiest appearance. One hand was
thrust into a boot, which Monsieur Guillemot had apparently
been cleaning; the other now pressed the heart of
the owner of the boot, and waved itself politely in general
salutation.
“Sainte Marïe!” cried Monsieur Guillemot, as he
entered and received a cordial shake of Sansoucy's hand;
“I see my friend Mossier Sansoucí! Ha! ha! ze worl'
is strange—bien etrange!”
“What 's strange, my dear friend?” said Sansoucy.
“To come so on one friend—one ver' good friend!
nevare sink to—”
“Well, my dear fellow,” said Sansoucy, “no matter
what you think; the world is full of surprises—a fact I
need not take the trouble to prove to Monsieur Guillemot.”
“Mon Dieu c'est vrai!” replied the old Frenchman,
shaking his head, and consequently his foot.
“Who would have thought to see the elegant Monsieur
Guillemot, maitre d'armes at the shooting and fencing
gallery, in slippers—like an ordinary man! It's positively
amazing!” said Sansoucy.
This turn of the conversation seemed to please and
interest Monsieur Guillemot, and he evidently appreciated
the adjective “elegant,” to its full extent.
“Non non Monsieur,” he said, shaking his head and
shrugging his shoulders; “I was elegant long time ago—
I was garçon, beau garçon, my friends say. But all that
is pass, mossieu; I grow veillard.”
“You, Monsieur Guillemot! you astonish me. You
are still a beau—and I often hear my friends of a certain
age say that not ten years ago you were quite a child
and kept the best and most elegant establishment in
town.”
“Ah oui!” cried Monsieur Guillemot, “I was young
once; and I keep one ver fine house. I 'ave dominoes,
I 'ave cafe—I 'ave canoees back duck—deliceuse! I 'ave
faisant, I 'ave oystare—I 'ave de canoees back duck, mos
delicieuse—Oh! delicieuse! delicieuse! mossieu!”
And Monsieur Guillemot shrugged his shoulders and
closed his eyes in ecstacy.
“That was in the good old days, was it not?” said Sansoucy,
smiling; “you got tired of that life, eh? Late
hours, and so on.”
“I tire!” cried Monsieur Guillemot, “Oh, non! non,
Mossieu Sansouci: I break!
And the old Frenchman's head sank, and with it the
foot—a melancholy shadow passing over his countenance.
“I no get tire, Mossieu!” he said, mournfully, but
with a fantastic sort of resignation which made his countenance
a pleasant sight to see. “I no get tire, mon cher,
Mossieu! I break. Ze ole compaynie come no more to
see me—zey grow up—I keep my house all ze same. Ze
ole compaynie in ze ole times drop in of evenings, and
say, `Bon jour, Mossieu Guillemot! Some cafe s'il vous
plait, some oystare—Ah, Mossieur, one canoeese back
delicieuse!' An' I say, `Messieurs, ze honneur of Guillemot
is pledge to you, and all shall be sur la table, in one
instant. Bon—and so zey set down and play dominoes,
and smile—so elegant—and say, what nice house, Mossieu
Guillemot conduct—and so ze cafe come—zey drink—zey
pay—and smile, and bow, and say, Bon jour Mossieu,
mon ami—good day, my dear sir and friend. What
polite gentlemen! Ah ha! this no last all ze time. Ze
young men come—zey no say Mossieu Guillemot! some
cafe, if you please! Non! zey cry out, cocktail! smash!
oystare! vite!!! mak' 'aste! 'an then zey no pay nothing,
Mossieu. Ze long bills break me, Mossieu Sansoucí.
Poor Guillemot is bank-a-root—he is bank-a-root, Mossieur
Sansouci—c'est tout!”
And pausing with a flush upon his countenance, Monsieu
Guillemot's head drooped. Before Sansoucy could
speak, however, this flush passed away, and the old
Frenchman's face grew smiling and cheerful again; and
glancing at his boot, he cried with all the vivacity of a
veritable garçon;
“Sainte Maire! quelle betise. My botte! Mossieur,
my neighbors,” he added, to Joe Lacklitter,” 'ave you,
per'aps some blackeeng?”
Joe shook his head, and said he was very sorry, but he
had not; at which Monsieur Guillemot's countenance
was seen to assume an expression of decided gloom.
“Nevare mind! nevare mind!” he said, however, in a
moment; “I clean my boots ver well. I 'ave much
plaisir in 'aving seen my friends—and mam'selle Ellie's
face is always like ze sunshine.”
With which elegant speech Monsieur Guillemot was
going out of the room.
“Are you fixing to go to the gallery, Monsieur Guillemot?”
said Satsoucy.
“Sur l'instant! in one moment, Mossieur!” said the
old Frenchman.
“Well, I will wait for you. Come by as you descend,
and we will go together.
This arrangement seemed to please Monsieur Guillemot,
and ten minutes after ascending he came down, wrapped
in his old travelling cloak, and carrying under his arm a
bundle of foils.
Sansoucy with a last kind word to Joe and Ellie, and
a promise to bring Charley a present of gingerbread in a
day or two, left the humble room with the fencing-master,
who muttered as he went with a smile, “Poor Guillemot
is bank-a-root, Mossieur Sansoucí, bank-a-root!!'
21. CHAPTER XXI.
RECOLLECTIONS OF AUNT PHILLIS.
Let us now return to Lucia and her friends, from
whom we have been diverted by the appearance of Doctor
Fossyl and Monsieur Guillemot.
As soon as the “company” left Aunt Phillis' cellar,
and scattered themselves on their various paths homeward,
Lucia went down to the old woman's apartment,
and assisted her in performing the various household
ceremonies which are necessary to the comfort of those
who are fond of neatness and order. In a little while,
the remains of the feast which Aunt Phillis had laid
before her friends were removed, and the old woman and
Lucia sat before the fire, and saw the gloomy evening
descend gradually, wrapping the streets and everything
in its chill cloud.
“Lord knows I b'lieve that hymn is made me stronger,”
said Aunt Phillis: “bless de Lord, I'll git sail in the ole
ship o' Zion over Jordan—I'm goin' over Jordan, chile
—now don't you say I ain't; de Lord do so to me, and
more also!”
With which Aunt Phillis relapsed into thought, and
remained for a long time silent. At last she said in a
low, feeling voice:
“'Seems to me all the ole days comin' back agin'.
They was a little boy ole master had, and I think I never
see a boy so smart. `Mammy Phillis! Mammy Phillis!'
he say: `Mammy Phillis, what a pretty moon it is!' and
then he say, `Papa, up there—bright, bright as day!'
well, this is a strange worl' I think—I think it is!
`bright, bright as day!”'
And Aunt Phillis laughed in a low tone.
“He was a mity pretty boy,” she went on; “prettier
an' any I mos' ever see: his face mos' shine! and I'm
seein' of him now a-playin' with his baby-house, and toddlin'
along, and makin' ev'rybody come and see it! Well
—well—well, de Lord, he knows it was a trial when he
was took down—an' when de flowers was tied upon his
coffin, 'seemed to me I liked to cried. Poor little thing
—but Jesus took him home! `Mammy,' says she—his
mother, my own blessed mistuss, says, my chile: `mammy,'
says she, a-cryin', with her hair all hangin' down,
and leanin' on the cradle': “mammy, he ain't cold, is he,
O! don't say he's cold!'—and when I say, `Now, mistuss,
you go right back whar you come from!' how she shaked
and cried! poor thing! The fust goes hard with em!—
but Jesus took him home!”
There was a strange pathos in the old woman's voice,
and in the gloom it sounded infinitely pitiful and touching.
“Dey buried him jis' when the sun was goin' down,
and never did I see a coffin that was littler! The flowers
was over it, and when they let it down thar in the e'rth,
it seemed mos' like he was a flower too. `Consider the
lilies of the field,'—and mistuss set a-cryin' in the carridge—yes,
she did!—poor mistuss! `Mammy,' says
she, that night: `they did'nt cut me any of his hair,'
says she. `Oh me!' says she: `why, why did God take
all I have away from me?' says she. And then she go
be done—thy will be done, not mine,' says she. Poor
mistress, she's in heaven now, 'long with the baby an' ole
master. Jesus took 'em home.”
And Aunt Phillis rocked herself about, and began to
croon in a low voice:
The lamb on Calvary;
The lamb that was slain, but lives again,
To intercede for me.”
Lucia was silent—only in the darkness her tears begun
to flow; and her heart was melted by the poor old
woman's memories. These memories seemed to possess
an infinite tenderness, and the voice of the old negro
woman penetrated to the subtle and hidden fountain of
tears. She seemed, thus, in a waking dream to see the
past defile before her with its thousand scenes of every
description—and even when those scenes, as now, were
sad. Still the sadness seemed to be removed from them
in some way, and they shone with a light brighter than
that of earth. Memory like a tablet covered with signs,
but crusted over by the thousand cares of life, seemed
now to be made whole again—to be cleared from the
obscuring material, and to shine in all its virgin purity.
Was it approaching death which thus removed the mould
from those impressions, and brought them out again so
plainly?
The old woman rambled on with many such memories
as this one we have set down in her own words; and
Lucia listened with a sad pleasure to the feeble words.
“Well, well, my chile,” Aunt Phillis at length said,
“I'm tirin' of you with my talkin'. Young folks don't
know what ole folks is seen. I'm thinkin' it'll be all right
in the end. `Let not your heart be troubled, neither let
it be afraid.' I wont live long, and ain't afeard to go.
My blessed Lord is callin' of me home, to glory. Yes,
my chile, I'm goin' home. Oh, Lord, my strength! I'm
comin' home!”
With which the old woman crooned to herself the lines
of a hymn, and taking a candle from the table lit it, and
asked Lucia to read some for her.
“What shall I read, Aunt Phillis?” said Lucia, in a
tremulous voice.
“Anywhere—everywhere—chile—De Lord, he knows I
like it anywhere—jist where you choose.”
Lucia opened the Bible, and her eyes fell on those verses
in which the great monarch of the Jews points as a warning
to youth, the drooping days of age, and the shadows
of approaching death.
“In the day,” Lucia read, “when the keepers of the
house shall tremble, and the strong men shall bow themselves,
and the grinders cease because they are few, and
those that look out of the window be darkened.”
“Be darkened,” murmured Aunt Phillis, “and the
light shineth in darkness.”
“When they shall be afraid of that which is high, and
fear shall be in their way, and the almond tree shall
flourish, and the grasshopper shall be a burden, and desire
shall fail, because man goeth to his long home, and
the mourners go about the streets.”
“And the mourner goeth about the streets,” repeated
Aunt Phillis, in a low voice.
“Or even the silken cord be loosened, or the golden
bowl be broken, or the pitcher be broken at the fountain,
or the wheel broken at the cistern. Then shall the dust
return to the earth, as it was, and the spirit shall return
unto God who gave it.'
“Oh, yes, my chile! return to God! Oh, yes,” said
the old woman, solemnly, “that'll do, don't read no more,
my chile—don't read no more.”
Lucia closed the book, and leaned her head upon her
hand, gazing sadly into the fire. As she sat thus, she
presented a strange contrast to the old negro woman,
trembling upon the verge of life, and passing slowly into
that darkness, which wraps from human eyes the mysterious
future. Young, of delicate and touching beauty,
and with that sad sweetness of eye and lip, which marks a
high nature, thrown, unprepared and weak, on the rude
surface of the world, Lucia could scarcely have presented
a more perfect contrast to her companion. There was one
thing in common, however, between these two beings—
one tie, which has bound together, nations and tongues
and peoples, in all ages—and this tie was stronger than
any earthly difference.
Lucia sat thus for some moments, gazing into the fire;
and then raising her head, said, with a sad smile:
“Aunt Phillis, I think I should like to die while I am
young—I would not like to live a long, long time.”
“Leave it to God, my chile,” said the old woman, “his
right to 'spect health always, or to 'scape ole age.”
“Oh, I didn't mean that?”
“Didn't mean what, my chile?”
“I didn't mean I was afraid of sickness or old age for
the pain: but it might make me impatient and rebellious.
I might think God had deserted me, because I suffered.”
“That ain't right, my child. We ain't got no right to
have sich feelin's. He doeth all things well, an' like as a
father pitieth his children—that's the way he sends down
weakness and sickness and sufferin', bless de Lord.”
“Oh, yes: and indeed, indeed, I did not mean to say I
would think God did not love me. Does he love me, Aunt
Phillis?—oh, does he love me?”
And Lucia covered her face and suppressed a sob, which
came to her lips.
“I know he does, my chile,” said Aunt Phillis, “I know
he does! Only believe!”
“Oh, yes, I do believe! indeed, indeed, I do! I have
been sick and sorrowful; but I am not sorrowful now! I
didn't know if I believed, before I saw you, Aunt Phillis,
but now I do!”
And the child bent and sobbed and murmured.
“Ellie made me think how sinful and rebellious I was,
and I thought I heard God speak to me, and often since
I thought he spoke to me! Oh, yes, Aunt Phillis, I believe—with
all my heart!—I am only a child—a poor
child—full of sin!—but—he will—not refuse me, when—I
kneel and pray to him!”
And overcome by emotion, the child's head drooped
of her agitation.
Let us pause here.
There are words which should not be repeated here for
the indifferent, perhaps the sneering, though for such we
care nothing—there are scenes which the writer lays down
his pen in presence of, and passes onward with respect and
silence as he gazes at them. Surely the pure emotion of
a child, in whose innocent heart the first seeds of a sublime
faith are sown, should not be laid bare, and dissected
in the cold, material spirit of the anatomist, who thrusts
his scalpel, with like carelessness, into whatever lies before
him. No art can adequately portray such scenes—the
infinite beauty of faith, and love, and singleness of heart,
has never yet been cut in marble, or placed upon canvass,
or described in words.
Lucia sat with the old woman until the long hours of
the night deepened and glided towards midnight: then
she rose and assisted Aunt Phillis, who tottered feebly, to
her bed: and then, with an affectionate good night, the
child sought her own poor chamber, and was soon buried
in sleep; the prayer she murmured, as her weary eyelids
closed, still on her lips—still on her lips, but elsewhere
heard and answered!
22. CHAPTER XXII.
HOW AN UNKNOWN FRIEND SENT LUCIA A DRESS
Lucia was just opening her door to go down, on the
next morning, when suddenly she heard a rapid step upon
the stairway, and with one bound the feet which caused
this noise reached her door, and a quick hand burst it
open.
Lucia found herself face to face with Wide-Awake.
Wide-Awake was triumphant, resplendent, full of pride
and happiness. He carried in his hand a bundle, which
he threw from him immediately upon Lucia's bed.
“There it is!” cried Wide-Awake; “it 's my opinion
that there 's magic in the world; and if there ain't, there 's
what's jest as good—kind people!”
And having disburdened himself of this observation,
Wide-Awake took both of Lucia's hands in his, and
gazed into her face with a singular mixture of mirth and
bashfulness, of ease and awkwardness.
It seemed suddenly to occur to him, however, that this
proceeding was ambiguous—the position he had assumed
presumptuous—and, in order to remove any appearance
of strangeness, he pressed the hands he held, and said:
“I say, Lucia—how d'ye do?”
“I am very well, Sam,” said Lucia, with the sad,
sweet smile which characterized her; “what is that bundle?
You quite frightened me.”
“Frightened you?”
“You came in so suddenly, you know,” said Lucia.
“So I did! The fact is, I 'm a fool and a villain,
Lucia, and nothing else.”
“Oh! how can you say such—”
“Cause it 's true. Here I am, frightenin' a young
'ooman who 's a friend—you 're my friend, ain't you,
Lucia?” said Wide-Awake, with a bashful look.
“Oh, yes—indeed, I—like you so much, for your kindness—and
goodness.”
There was quite as much bashfulness in Lucia's voice
as in Wide-Awake's; and it was not difficult to see that
the affection of the boy was returned by the child.
“Goodness!” cried Wide-Awake, “don't say it no
more! Don't, Lucia! Oh, my eyes!—leastways,” added
Wide-Awake, “that 's not the sort o' talk for you, an' so
I take it back! What a low fellow I am, Lucia!”
And Wide-Awake stood in horror at his own character.
“Don't say nothin! he added. “I am! and you can't
make me b'lieve I ain't. But I'm gittin' `refined,' as I
hear the swells say. Think o' Wide-Awake gittin' refined—and
all along of you!”
The idea seemed to tickle Wide-Awake, and he laughed
so merrily that Lucia almost laughed too.
“Here 's a fool for you!” continued Wide-Awake.
“Here I am a talkin' 'bout myself, an' there 's that
bundle—”
“Oh, what is it?”
“It 's a dress—look there!”
And Wide-Awake tore open the parcel, into which he
had already peeped, in his quality of friend—perhaps to
convince himself that it contained no infernal machine,
lady's life.
“It's a warm, nice frock,” he said, “just look!”
Lucia opened the bundle and took out just what Wide-Awake
described—a warm, nice frock.
“Oh, me!” she said, “there's some mistake! where did
you get it, Sam?”
“It was giv' into my hands jest now” said Wide-Awake,
“there at the bottom of the stairs.”
“At the door?”
“Yes. I was comin' to see you, Lucia, sayin' to myself,
I was a fool to stay away so long—most two days—
because the people would be thinkin'—well, never mind,
that ain't no matter,” Wide-Awake said, breaking off, “I
was comin' to see you, an' when I got to the bottom of
the steps, I see a black fellow lookin' round as if he
couldn't see no perfessional sign, and didn't know where
anybody lived. `Now, uncle,' says I, `don't be hurtin'
of your eyes; but if you'r lookin, for lawyer Wide-Awake,
say so, an' no more.' `I ain't,' he says, `I'm
lookin' for a little gal o' name o' Lucia.' When I heard
that, I told him I was goin' up, and what did he want.
He said this bundle was for you, an' he was not to say
who sent it—an' I jerked it out of his hand, an' brought
it up, an' peeped into it, an' it's such a warm, nice
dress—hoora!”
And Wide-Awake took the frock, and opened it and
gazed at it with pride and delight.
“Who could have sent it!” said Lucia, with a look of
deepest surprise, “who could have thought of me?”
Wide-Awake seemed to consider the circumstance
much less extraordinary than it appeared to Lucia.
Suddenly he uttered an exclamation, and caught, as it
fell, a note which was wrapped in one of the folds.
“Here's the owner's name—here it is! He gives it
to you!”
And Wide-Awake tore open the note, and with inborn
politeness held it without looking at it, toward Lucia.
The child took it, and read:
“For the child, Lucia, from one who cares nothing for
her, asks no gratitude, and would receive no thanks.”
Lucia's hand sank down, and she looked at Wide-Awake
with so much astonishment and bewildering surprise, that
he held out his hand for the letter; and took it and
read it.
“It's my opinion,” he said, at length, “that this here
dress has fallen down from the skies!”
“Oh! some good person has given it to me.”
“I don't know that,” said Wide-Awake, sapiently, “I
believe its magic!”
And he read the letter again, but could, of course,
make nothing of it. The boy and girl could speak of
nothing else for an hour; and yet, at the end of that
time, they were quite as far from the solution of the
mystery as ever.
“Oh!” Lucia cried, suddenly, “could it have been!—
could it—!”
“Who, Lucia!”
“The old doctor who comes to see Ellie's uncle.”
“Who? Doctor Fossyl!”
“Yes.”
Wide-Awake laughed in derision.
“That man's a perfect tiger, he is,” said the boy, “he
screws out every cent he can get, and would see you
freeze before he'd open his hand to help you. What
could 'a' made you think of him, Lucia?”
“I thought—when Ellie—that is, I think he heard
Ellie offer me her dress—a new one—he was at the
door—and he might have heard Ellie say how thin my
old one was—oh yes! I think it was Doctor Fossyl! I
know it is!”
Lucia uttered these words with an accent of such deep
conviction, that Wide-Awake found himself staggered.
“Well,” he said, “nothin's impossible, I've heard
people say, and Doctor Fossyl may be the man! But if
he is, I'll go and git down on my knees and ask his
pardon for my treatin' him so badly!”
Wide-Awake seemed to be seized with the deepest
contrition, as he uttered these words, and hung his head.
“Treating him badly?” asked Lucia, “you treat
Doctor Fossyl badly?”
“Yes, Lucia! don't consider me a villain! I done so
at him,” and Wide-Awake extended his finger over his
left shoulder, “and told him to take care of himself an'
not bile!”
The recollection of this enormity seemed to plunge
Wide-Awake into the depths of remorse.
“Never mind,” said Lucia, “that was only a jest, and
if he is so good and sent me this frock, he will not think
badly of you for such a thing.”
“I'll go and beg his pardon, and tell him after all his
goodness to you, Lucia—”
“Oh! no, no!” said Lucia, “you know the letter says
he wants no thanks, and maybe you had better not. How
good it was in him! My old dress is nearly gone!”
And Lucia gazed simply at her thin and worn old
frock.
This observation made Wide-Awake perfectly miserable;
and with this misery was mingled the jealousy he
felt, at seeing another relieve the suffering of his Lucia,
while he was unable.
“Oh, me! why ain't I rich!” he said.
“Rich! Sam?”
“Oh, yes! I can't do nothin' for you.”
Lucia smiled, and looking at the honest face with her
kind and tender eyes, said:
“Maybe it's better you are not rich, Sam; you would
have other things to think of, and we wouldn't be such
friends.”
“Wouldn't be! Oh, my eyes! Lucia! I'd come in a
chariot an' carry you away—and—and—and—leastways I
would ask you—you will soon be grown, you know—”
And overwhelmed with agitation at this near approach
to an avowal of his love and hopes, poor Wide-Awake's
countenance was covered with crimson, and his eyes fell
to the ground.
Lucia understood his meaning, and a faint color came
into her cheeks, and she was silent. She soon regained
her self-possession, however, and said softly and sadly:
“It is a great comfort to have such a kind good friend;
not think I want anything—I'm very well off now—I
work for Aunt Phillis, and you must not spend any of
your money as you have been doing for me.”
Lucia then folded up the dress, and laid it away; and
recalled to her duties by the name of Aunt Phillis, opened
the door, and, accompanied by Wide-Awake, went down.
As to Wide-Awake, his feelings seemed to choke him,
for he uttered not a single word; and only gazed at Lucia
with a sort of vague wonder, as if she was a curious and
astonishing problem which he could not solve. His
glances took in all the details of her face and figure—the
dark liquid eyes—the raven hair—the sad, innocent lips:
—lastly they fell upon her thin and flimsy dress, through
which, as they descended, the freezing wind cut pitilessly,
into the shivering person. This last spectacle brought a
groan from Wide-Awake; and all he could do was to
wring Lucia's hand, and groan again, after which he departed,
with his head over his right shoulder, into the
bleak distance.
23. CHAPTER XXIII.
WHAT BETTER EPITAPH!
Lucia stood for a moment gazing after him; and
something like a sigh issued from her parted lips. She
suppressed the feeling, however, which produced this exhibition
of emotion, and descended into Aunt Philis' cellar.
Aunt Phillis had taken in that one dim night a long
stride toward the land she was rapidly approaching. She
seemed now lying in her bed, to pass away in thought
from the real world around her into the world of memory,
or forward to that brighter universe where there is no
death, or suffering, or sighing.
“Peace to me, my chile, I'm goin' over Jordan,” said
Aunt Phillis, feebly, as she handed back the cup from
which she had drank a little tea; “I see a vision in the
night, and I'm a-goin'.”
“Oh, Aunt Phillis,” said the child, “You distress me
so by talking in that way! You are only a little sick,
and you'll soon be well.”
Oh, no, I won't my chile! Oh, no, I won't—don't think
I will! De Lord is bin a-callin' me, and I'm a-goin!”
After uttering these words, the old woman clasped her
hands outside of the counterpane, and closing her eyes,
seemed to be praying.
“Read me a little o' the good book, my chile,” she
said, at length,” 'pears to me it sounds like music—oh,
yes! like de blessed music ob de skies—oh, yes! read—
'bout it, chile!”
And the old woman closed her eyes, and sank back,
murmuring a prayer.
The child, with a sort of awe, opened the Bible, and
wiping away the tears which obscured her eyes, and made
the words swim before her, commenced reading those
words, in which the beloved disciple closes up his sublime
revelation.
“And he showed me a pure river of water of life, clear
the Lamb. In the midst of the street of it, and on either
side of the river, was there the tree of life, which bare
twelve manner of fruits, and yielded her fruit every
month; and the leaves of the tree were for the healing of
the nations.”
Aunt Phillis murmured to herself in a low voice, “For
the healing of the nations! Oh, yes! for the healing of
the nations, black an' white!”
The child continued in a low voice.
“And there shall be no more curse; but the throne of
God and of the Lamb shall be in it; and his servants
shall serve him: and they shall see his face, and his name
shall be in their foreheads. And there shall be no night
there: and they need no candle neither light of the sun,
for the Lord God giveth them light; and they shall reign
forever and ever.”
The old woman repeated the last words in a low
tone, and sighed. The child read on, and came to the
words:
“And behold I come quickly, and my reward is with
me to give every man according as his work shall be. I
am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end, the
first and the last.”
“Oh, yes, he's comin' quickly to me,” murmured Aunt
Phillis: “I can hear him comin' quickly—oh, my God!
I see him comin' like the mornin' in the sky!”
“I am the root and the offspring of David, and the
bright and morning star,” read the child; “and the
Spirit and the bride say come. And let him that heareth
will, let him take the water of life, freely.”
These words seemed to cause the feeble old soul a
pleasure and content too deep for words: and when the
child read, “He which testifieth these things saith, surely
I come quickly, Amen. Even so come, Lord Jesus,”
the weak lips repeated the words in a murmur, and the
thin hands were clasped in deep content and hope.
All that day the old woman lay in a sort of ecstacy,
her thoughts busy with the past and the future. Again
her memory seemed to grow preternaturally vivid, and
from the broken words she uttered, she seemed to be
again thrown actually back to the far past, and to live it
over again, with all its emotions, pleasant or bitter, glad
or sorrowful:—and then all these reveries would melt and
fade, and surging forward like a tide, which has retreated
only to collect its strength, the heart and soul, and being
of the dying woman poured upon those far mysterious
shores, wrapped for us in an impervious mist, but dimly
seen by those who are passing slowly from the present to
the future.
Who knows how far the eyes of the dying penetrate
into that hidden universe—or who can tell what visions
the soul, nearly divorced from matter, is capable of
beholding, even before the parting with its prison-house,
the body? Often upon the countenance of a dying child
may be seen an expression of intelligence most startling,
and the eyes will be full of a light which never illumined
them before. As often will a smile, brighter than anything
on earth, light up the little countenance, and
will interpose between those two mysteries, Life and
Death. It is not a sorrowful belief—the conviction that
the infant sinking thus, pulse after pulse, into the glory
of heaven, sees something of that glory as he passes from
the shadows of this world:—that before his eyes the
“pure lilies of eternal peace,” wave in the light of a new
universe, where the snapped earthly flowers will grow
again—that heaven opens before life has closed, and that
the lover of little children bends down, taking in his
arms the soul thus balanced on its wings, ready to take
its flight.
If the old dying woman saw not with the actual eye,
she still saw by faith. And this faith was perfect enough
to cover her face with a happiness which made Lucia
gaze wonderingly at her.
Lucia remained with her until a number of her friends
came; and then she went up to her room, and kneeled
down and prayed for her.
All that day Aunt Phillis' friends came and went with
the strange curiosity and interest which characterizes the
African mind, on such occasions. It soon came to be
known that sister Phillis was dying, and her children, who
lived all about the city, in different capacities, gathered
around her dying bed, and listened to her last words.
Just as the sun was setting, the old woman murmured
lowly, “Jesus, my Lord, come quickly,”—and then her
spirit took its flight; and a wail rose from the poor cellar,
which had in it something so wild and solemn, that the
went on their way in silence.
Lucia lay on her bed and cried, until she was weak and
sick: thinking of the hundred kind things the old woman
had done for her—of the words of hope and comfort she
had uttered. Struck thus by another affliction, so soon
after the death of her father, the child's spirit sank within
her; and she sobbed and cried, and could only utter
broken words of prayer.
The night passed away, almost without slumber on her
part, and only toward morning could she snatch an hour
or two of slumber. No one can tell what a tempest of
thought and suffering raged in the child's heart, through
those long and weary hours. Her heart had begun to
twine its delicate tendrils around the affectionate old woman—and,
long deprived of a mother's care and love, the
child had found in the hearty goodness of Aunt Phillis,
that sympathy which she needed, and which nothing but
a child, or those who remember the feeling of their childhood,
will adequately realize. Now she was taken from
her, just when she was becoming a solace to the child;
and with her passed away also, that means of support—
of procuring daily bread—which Lucia knew not elsewhere
to seek.
But of this she did not think. Her whole heart was
full of weeping for her poor old friend: and when she
rose in the early morning, it seemed to her that the sunshine
had grown dark, the world colder and more weary,
that she was once more thrown alone and friendless into
consolation.
She tried to read her Bible, but she had not learned to
surrender her whole heart and being at that altar, and the
tears in her eyes made the words swim. She closed the
book, and went mechanically to kindle her small fire—for
the room was bitter cold. She forgot that her last piece
of wood had been used—and gazing at the empty corner,
with a sort of dumb and vacant surprise, she went and lay
down on the bed again, and covered her head, and sobbed.
Hour after hour passed away, and the silence was broken
by no sound but the stifled sobs of the child. Ellie came
in once, but seeing Lucia sleeping, as she thought, went
softly out again.
About noon, a voice was heard from the cellar, where a
great concourse had gathered:—and the solemn tones of
this voice indicated that the speaker was praying. Lucia
rose and put back her hair, and went out on the stairway,
crying.
Leaning upon the railing, cold and solemn, Doctor
Fossyl listened to the prayer, and muttered to himself.
The speaker ended, and a hymn followed—one of those
simple hymns, which have scarcely any prescribed words,
but a fixed chorus, which all are acquainted with and sing:
Will you go? will you go?
Come and will you go
Where pleasure never dies!”
The strain rang out—loud, solemn, and impressive—and
then it ceased: and the mourners seemed to be preparing
to follow the body to its long home.
One of the negro women came out and entered the door,
and stood looking on, as the concourse entered the carriages,
and moved on.
It moved on slowly, and turned into a side street, and
disappeared.
The woman covered her face with her hand, and seemed
to be crying. A cynical smile flitted across the face of
Doctor Fossyl, as he gazed, and descending the stairs, he
touched her shoulders, and said:
“Why are you crying?”
“For sister Phillis, bless de Lord!” said the woman,
“she done, gone.”
“Did you know her—have you lost anything by her
death?”
“Oh, no, sir; but I bin see heap of her, an' it makes
me sorry to be thinkin' of her. She come in my house—
she did—an' sot down to'ther day, an' I thought she
look 'sif she was a-goin'. But I say, `how well you is
a-lookin', sister Phillis;' but I didn't think so, only said
it like to make her easy. `No, I ain't a-lookin' well, says
she; `I ain't long for this worl', sister Jane,' says she. I
tole her not to be talkin' so—she'd soon be well, if she
stopped ironin' in the draught, with her door open, an'
she weak an' poorly. `No, I ain't goin' to git well,' says
she; `I know my time's a-comin', fast, an' I'm a-goin.
You won't b'lieve it till you see me on the coolin' board,'
says she, `I'm goin', fast.' I tole her, she was gittin'
down-hearted, but she said, she wasn't. `No, sister Jane,'
says she, `I ain't long for this worl'—I'm goin' over
Jordan, soon.' She ironed a shirt for me, but she got so
fittin' for no work—no, not at home. `I'm 'bleeged to
do my customer's clothes,' says she; an' after a little she
got up and went away. Soon after, she was took, an'
went to bed, and yesterday mornin' she knowed she was
a-goin' home. Her children wouldn't b'lieve 'cause she
talked sense—but she called 'em to her, an' shook hands
with 'em, an' tole 'em good-bye. `I'm good as gone,'
says she; `I'm goin' over Jordan,' bless de Lord.' Her
son jes' fell back, same like he was dead, an' she turned
round, and soon they found her dead. Poor Phillis,
gone!”
And the speaker covered her face, and began to cry
again. Then without waiting further she went away—
returning to her work, which had prevented her from
following her friend.
Doctor Fossyl looked after her for a moment—gazed
coldly at Lucia, who stood crying on the steps—and then
pushing by the child, went hastily to the apartment of Joe
Lacklitter.
Lucia sat down upon the steps, and covered her face,
and sobbing as if her heart would break, uttered the words
“Aunt Phillis! Oh, Aunt Phillis! why, why, can't I go
with you! Why can't I go with you!”
What better epitaph.
24. CHAPTER XXIV.
IN THE ARENA: WITH SKETCHES OF THE GLADIATORS.
Let us now pass from these scenes on which our history
has essayed to delineate faintly something of the life
which forms the annals of the poor, to those other scenes
and personages of the narrative which we have not been
able to attend to, busy as we were in tracing the emotions
and relating the adventures of the child Lucia, and her
friends, Wide-Awake and Ellie.
The difficulty in a narrative like the history we have
made the attempt to write, is not the detail of the particular
scenes, or the representation of those characteristic
traits which make a picture of some value. The connection
of the incidents is the great task. The writer finds
no difficulty in embracing at a glance the personages, the
incidents, and the end to which the whole group moves:—
but there is another element of the problem which must
never be lost sight of—and that is the reader. For the
reader, however intelligent and sympathizing, there must
always be a more or less literal explanation; for careless,
indifferent, and unsympathizing readers there must be
more—a demonstration. If the links of the history are
not forged completely and wrapped up in flowers, all at a
single blow, these latter say that it is awkward, hastily
composed, a bad work of art;—if anything is left to the
imagination, it is obscure;—if everything is explained, and
dwelt upon, and turned in every light—then it is tedious.
was not an unsympathizing reader.
This is the explanation of our fear, in passing from a
series of scenes and characters, to another wholly different:—and
we can only ask the reader to follow us, convinced
as we are, that in the end the connection of every
page of the narrative will be conclusively shown.
We return to Mr. Incledon and his fortunes.
Since the morning when, in the presence of Ellie, this
gentleman and his cousin held that singular conversation,
so filled with coldness and irritation upon the one part,
and so calm and self-possessed upon the other—a hundred
things had happened, which had still further tended to
place in an attitude of hostility these two personages, who
sustained toward each other such singular relations.
Miss Incledon had spoken truly in charging her cousin
with an affection for herself, amounting to a warmer sentiment
than fraternal regard. Placed under his care by her
father—thrown with him at almost every hour of the day—
he had, indeed, dreamed for a time that she could make
him happy as his wife; and he had shown her that she
was more to him than any other woman. Beautiful, winning,
possessed of those traits of mind which enable some
women to throw themselves at a moment's warning into
any mould, to assume any character, Miss Incledon had
easily convinced her cousin that the sentiment he felt for
herself was not more than she experienced for him; and
this had been the position of things, when one evening, at
a ball, Miss Incledon made the acquaintance of Mr.
Fantish.
There must be a magnetic sympathy between persons
of a like mould of character, and although we do not
mean to intimate that the characters of Miss Incledon and
Mr. Fantish were similar, yet they had no sooner met
than they were mutually struck with each other, and had
thus commenced an acquaintance, whose further progress
quite drove from the lady's heart any lingering sentiment
of dubious regard she might have had for her cousin.
Ambitious, and avid of all that enters into the daily life
of a professed votary of fashion, Miss Incledon saw in
Mr. Fantish a complete embodiment of what she worshipped;
and learning speedily that his father was a man
of large wealth, and he himself by no means without fortune
of his own, she had assiduously addressed herself to
the task of winning his admiration—and so of becoming
his wife.
It would be too much, to say that Miss Incledon loved
Mr. Fantish. She was scarcely capable of any sentiment
so exalted and pure as genuine love: and the miserable
idol she had erected for her worship—Fashion, first, last
and always—had corrupted, slowly but surely, any freshness
of heart which she retained. To become the wife of
a man who was regarded as the very light of fashion in
its brightest and most glaring form—to be the mistress of
a fine establishment, and drink to satiety of that intoxicating
draught which bubbles up in the heated atmosphere
of balls, and festivals, and splendid entertainments—this
was Miss Incledon's ambition; and the steps by which
she thought she could arrive at such a consummation were
kid glove of Mr. Fantish.
The feelings of the gentleman, upon whose hand this
adroit attack was destined to be made, may be described
quite as briefly. Mr. Fantish liked what he was accustomed
to style a “splendid woman”—that is to say a
woman whose physical development was admirable, and
whose society enabled him to kill a portion of his time to
his satisfaction. Mr. Fantish did not acknowledge the
presence of character, good or bad, in women: they were
pleasant figures, more or less well dressed, to wile away
an hour with; and when he met a figure, to carry out the
illustration, more than commonly imposing and well decorated,
he admired it with perfect sincerity and honesty.
He was in the habit of saying that women reminded him
of leopards, such as he had seen in menageries; and he
showed the analogy between them, by declaring that both
were handsome, had sharp claws, and obeyed only those
whom they feared. You felt a desire to caress both, he
would add—to pass the hand over the beautiful hair of
the one, or the velvet fur of the other—and if a man had
the nerve to indulge in these dangerous amusements, he
would add, then he was a very lucky fellow, and deserved
to be envied. These opinions were no secrets from Mr.
Fantish's friends, and, indeed, the expression of such
views contributed in no slight degree to the amusement
which his acquaintances derived from their association
with him. There was another species of conversation
very popular in the select circle of this gentleman's friends,
which we forbear from touching upon. We may however
strength of female character; and found its most frequent
illustrations in quotations from the works of my Lord
Byron.
When Mr. Fantish made Miss Incledon's acquaintance,
he immediately applied the leopard philosophy, and found
the result eminently satisfactory. He had not seen such
a “splendid woman” for a long time—and indeed the
lady's brilliant complexion, bright eyes, and coral lips,
fresh from the healthful airs of the country, easily gave
her the precedence of the great majority of town beauties,
painfully reduced in “good looks” by the season, ending
far in the spring. Mr. Fantish had admired Miss
Incledon quite honestly, and had paid her many compliments,
which she had heard of course, and was perfectly
sincere when he said that she was much the finest woman
he had seen for years. When a man has this opinion of a
woman and the woman wishes him to have a still better
opinion, it is needless to say that she generally finds means
to give him an opportunity. It soon happened that Miss
Incledon was “at home” to nobody but a gentleman
who drove the most splendid pair of horses in the city—
and who descended daily almost from his vehicle at her
door.
When our history opened, this had been for some time
the state of affairs between Miss Incledon and her admirer—though
not entirely this. Mr. Fantish was not a
refined man—his taste was not very fastidious—but he
had seen a great deal of good society, knew by heart
everything connected with the “properties of things,”
friends—the desperate affection of Miss Incledon. He
had known many women—many of them had acted most
extravagantly, for instance, that little danseuse who was
distracted about him—but really a more desperate attack
than that of Miss Incledon, he never had been yet subjected
to. He had heard, he said, of unhappy lovers,
weeping and sighing, and lamenting the obduracy of their
lady-loves, but his was an opposite fate. He was destined
to be smothered with embraces—if he would allow
it—to be stifled with kisses—if he did not resist: his fate,
in a word, was to be wooed and won by a woman, and he
really did not know where all this would end. And then
a good deal of laughter would ensue, and Mr. Fantish
would be regarded as a persecuted saint, and Miss Incledon
as a young lady who wished to throw herself into the
arms of a man who repulsed her.
The reader will now be able to understand the position
which Mr. Incledon's cousin had been made to assume, by
these base and ignoble accusations, which the thoroughly
corrupt man of the world, uttered in the most public
places. When we have briefly spoken of the character
of Mr. Incledon, which as yet we have barely touched
upon, the rebound of these degrading jests upon that
gentleman, will be also comprehended in all its terrible
force.
The son of a country gentleman of great strength of
character and chivalric feeling, Ralph Incledon, had early
developed a character, which made many persons say he
was destined to live over again the life of his grandfather,
country side. He seemed to inherit a passion for everything
in which an enormous and superabundant vitality
and energy could find vent. A passionate hunter, he
would ride his horse nearly to death after a fox, or remain
out whole days and nights, deer hunting—and thus he
passed his boyhood, in exercises which developed his
frame into a bundle of steel tissues, and his natural
energy into a devouring passion for excitement.
From the fields and forests he passed to college, where,
in the midst of a new life and new associates, he became
noted for precisely the same animal traits which had
brought forth the hostile predictions of the wiseacres of
his native county. He could ride more vicious horses,
swim more turbid streams, and fence with more dangerous
adversaries, even after a few lessons, than any other young
man in the place. He had struck the fencing master himself
after his fourth lesson: and the plain explanation of
all this was that strength which he had trained so assiduously,
and the restless energy of his temperament, which
must eternally be struggling with something, as though
this were the only condition upon which it rested from
tearing its master. To this character, he added the most
extreme sensitiveness and pride. Of powerful will with a
resolution wholly indomitable, he would tremble at a jest
directed at his honor, and risk his life to punish it. He
had more than once engaged in affrays of the bloodiest
description, against great odds, and nothing but a blind
chance, it seemed to him, had preserved him from the
bullet or the knife. This sensitiveness amounted almost
ready to resent the least supposed slight, had not long
ago fallen in some desperate encounter. His great personal
strength, and resolution were so well known, however,
that he had been avoided by his companions: and
it was the conviction of this fact which made him one day
set down and reflect coolly upon his own character, and
the direction in which it was leading him. By one of
those sudden revulsions which not seldom happen to men
of powerful organization, he passed from one extreme to
the other, and forswearing all his former habits applied
himself night and day to the mastery of all the fields of
thought which extended themselves before him, inviting
him to come and take possession. Feeling an inborn and
extreme hatred of mathematics, he attacked that first;
and then passed to the languages and belles letters. In
all, his great energy carried him forward over difficulties
which his previous neglect of study had rendered a thousand
times more repulsive. Persisting in his resolution, he
went on in the course he had marked out for himself, and
before the session ended, he had acquired a devouring
passion for the most intense study. His vigorous and
close mind found its true element in those conflicts which
go on from generation to generation among the forces of
adverse philosophies and systems; and, grappling now
with the most acute dialecticians, his mind seemed to live
its normal life so to speak, of sustained and powerful
action.
Returning home with this change in his character, he
went on in spite of the astonishment of his associates—
strongest thinkers, on all the great questions of human
concern—a contest in which he spent three years. At the
end of that time he had become a free-thinker—for his
studies latterly were among the dry dogmas of conflicting
theological systems. In this state of mind, he threw
aside his tomes, went to that greatest fruit and treasure
of the Reformation, an open Bible; and thenceforth made
it his study, not his reading only—his intense, exhausting
single study. For a year, he scarcely took another volume
in his hand; and the result of this, as we believe will always
be the result, was a profound conviction of the eternal
truth of Christianity. With this logical conviction came
that other mystery, which would be like the shadow to
the substance, were it not the substance itself, and the
logical conviction but the shadow. He united himself to
the church, and then this man's life was forever changed.
From that time he had but one aim in life—to subdue his
passions; to go through an immense conflict, and finally
to apply himself to some work which should seem to him
worthy of a faith and energy such as he felt himself possessed
of.
He determined to go from the scenes which had witnessed
so many outbursts of passion; and to remain for a
while among the crowds which people streets. He would
apply himself during this time to some study—law, or any
thing he determined—and all this he did. His father
had put his cousin under his charge, and said to him—
“Ralph, watch over her as a brother,”—and this he had
done, passing his days thus in study, observation, and the
upon his arrival—they were old friends, in the country;
and Mr. Fantish, too, was no stranger. He had known
that gentleman at college.
This then, was the man to whom suddenly came the
vague, mocking rumor, he scarcely knew whence, that the
young girl over whose welfare he had promised to watch,
had become the jest of society, the subject of gossip,
nay, of positive calumny, by the base agency of a man
of his acquaintance. The entrance of the very thought
into his mind, caused a crimson flush to come over his
countenance—and his eyes flashed. He rose to his full
height, and cast downwards, as though towards this man,
a glance of disdainful incredulity. Then this expression
passed, and he grew deadly pale.
The words he had heard struck him doubly:—in his
pride, and his love. Dishonor! Could actual dishonor
ever approach him, and from such a source as this man
whom he well knew? For a time he gave way to his fury,
and broke everything which stood in his way, as he paced
his room; then he sat down, and pondered, and grew calm,
and prayed; and from that moment held such a curb upon
himself as few men have ever been able to do.
We have seen how, even in his interview with Miss
Incledon, he spoke with the utmost calmness — and
again, how, at the ball, only a shadow and a contraction
of his brows had indicated the existence of the slumbering
volcano of passion beneath.
Since the ball, some scenes of which we touched upon,
the reports of Mr. Fantish's speeches, and the jests they
Mr. Incledon's pride:—and it is just at this time, that we
again resume the thread, which we lost sight of for a time,
in the consideration of those things which befel Aunt
Phillis, Lucia, and their friends.
25. CHAPTER XXV.
THE OPERA OF DON GIOVANNI.
Sitting in his room at midnight, Mr. Incledon leaned
back in his chair, and allowing the law volume he had
been studying to fall upon the floor, gave himself up to
the flood of thought, which had been distracting his attention
for hours.
It was seldom that he yielded in this way; and one of
his rules was to repel any such thoughts, and bend his
mind down to the writer he was studying. But the match
which his brain had set fire to burnt slowly until it reached
the train of inflammable thought, and then it ignited, and
the dead speaker whom he had been listening to, was no
longer heard—the present claimed the student's sole
attention.
For a moment he remained silent, his brows curved into
a frown; his mouth full of melancholy and menace, his
eye lowering and dark.
Chancing to raise his eyes to the mirror over his mantel-piece,
their expression attracted his attention; and with a
smooth again, and the eyes grew calm.
“Well, well,” he said, “it has come to this at last.
Force against force, body to body, the only difference
being that one of the combatants is fully armed, the other
naked and deprived of every weapon. Of every weapon?
No! how weak my faith! There is a strength in my
weakness, a power in my disarmed condition which makes
me stronger than any earthly adversary.”
He paused, and remained for some time silent: his
countenance gradually growing more and more calm and
collected.
“What a singular thing,” he said, at length, “that I
should thus refuse the weapon placed in my hand,—that
I should disarm myself—and draw back from the contest
to which I am defied. If I chose, I might easily delude
myself into the belief that I was the proper instrument to
punish this crime—and were I to kill the criminal, society
would hail me with applause, as one who had legitimately
acted in defence of a most sacred thing—my honor, and
my cousin's honor. But this poor thing, the world's applause!
this froth upon the tide of human life, which so
many persons grasp at—God be thanked, I do not look to
it in shaping my own acts. I look higher! Oh, yes, infinitely
higher!—even to thee, O, my God!” he murmured,
solemnly, “to thee alone. In thy hands are the issues of
life and death—thou judgest, I do not—thou claimest vengeance
as the prerogative of thy divinity! If the stars of
heaven in their courses fought against Sisera, I can trust to
that heavenly aid to-day! Yes, yes! all these poor passions
God alone remains—the creature is alone with his Creator—
above all earthly things—above father and mother, children
and native land—alone with God!”
And raising his eyes toward heaven, his looks seemed
to penetrate into the sublime empyrean, which stretches
clear and calm far up above the mists and clouds, and
agitation of the earthly atmosphere beneath.
“It may be a hard trial,” he murmured, gazing again
into the fire: “but I think I am equal to it—I am not so
weak and passionate as I was—and look more and more
to duty. My duty is now plain, and I will perform it.”
As he spoke, a step resounded on the stairway, and in
a few minutes the door opened, giving entrance to our
friend, Mr. Sansoucy.
“Ah, Ralph! Ralph! what a student you are!” said
Sansoucy, with his clear, good-humored voice. “You
really ought to take some recreation, and not new yourself
up thus—though, faith! you may have been abroad,
and returned, considering the hour.”
With these words Sansoucy shook his friend by the
hand, and sitting down, threw back his overcoat, and
stretched himself.
Having performed this ceremony, he rose, took a cigar
from the mantel piece, and commenced smoking with the
air of a man who has a long evening before him until
bed-time, and is determined to take his leisure. The
explanation of this circumstance was that in right of his
membership of the editorial army, Mr. Sansoucy was
eccentric in his hours, and, indeed, preferred the shades
thoughts. “Proof” is an enemy which keeps terribly
late hours, is partial to night forays, and must never find
the sentinel asleep:—perhaps his frequent contact with
this adverse force at late hours, had given Mr. Sansoucy
his bad talent of retiring and rising late.
To-night, however, he had a perfectly valid excuse for
calling on a friend toward the hour of one:—he had been
to the opera, came in, in passing, and he informed Mr.
Incledon of the fact.
“I, on the contrary, have been studying,” said Mr.
Incledon; “less amusing, but more profitable.”
“I deny that,” said Sansoucy, laughing; “there is
much profit in good music—it refines the character.”
“Well—perhaps.”
“It elevates the spiritual and poetic portion of the
mind—”
“And never the sensuous?”
“Hum! as you have just said—`perhaps.”'
“There is no perhaps upon the subject, Ernest,” said
his friend; “there is an absolute fact which admits of
demonstration; and if the Grecian Lais, or the Roman
Messalina could stand there before us, and reply to my
interrogatories, I could soon persuade you that the lyrics
of Ionia, with her dames, intoxicated both these lands,
and ruined them. You are a philosopher, and I need not
therefore point you to old Burton.”
“I a philosopher! why, you are mistaken.”
“Well, I will not argue that subject with you. What
was the opera?”
“Don Giovanni.”
“Oh—indeed? Well, I have seen it, and the music is
wonderful.”
“What a splendid dramatic conception Leporello is,
and his music.”
“What a scoundrel he is,” continued Sansoucy; “but
I never can refrain from laughing, when he enters singing
the glory of his master. What diabolical music! It
is the scapin of French comedy set to a tune! And when
he points to the roll of ladies' names in his hand—all of
whom have been in love with the Señor, his master, what
a soul of scoffing Mozart's music possesses—you begin
to feel convinced that dishonor, knavery, and that fraud
upon woman which is as miserable a thing, says some one,
as to cheat a child at cards—that all these things are
really amusing and admirable, and delightfully entertaining.
You really begin to admire the successful Don,
before whom no fortress stands—and when Leporello
sang his triumphant song, I saw old Doctor Fossyl
shaking with cynical delight—a terribly bad sign, and
unmistakeable.”
“Is this the music which you consider spiritual?”
“Faith! that isn't fair, Ralph!” said Sansoucy, with
the air of a man who is very badly used.
“What, Ernest?”
“Why to lead me thus into a free and friendly expression
of opinion upon the opera I have seen to-night, and
then to clamp down on me, like a steel trap, for some
chance word I uttered on the general topic! It's always
thus, however, with you logicians,” added Sansoucy,
himself in silence. You must argue, forsooth!
and when you get the better of the argument, you are
satisfied, and triumph—without thinking of the thousand
agreeable things your argument has strangled! There it
is! deny that the portrait is your own.”
In spite of the great good humor of Mr. Sansoucy's
accent, a shadow seemed to have settled upon Mr. Incledon's
face, and he was silent.
At last he raised his head, and said:
Excuse me, Ernest, I am dull to-night. Who was at
the opera?”
“Oh, everybody.”
“Some names.”
“Faith, ask me some, and I will tell you.”
“Was my cousin there!”
“Miss Incledon?”
“Yes.”
“Certainly she was—with that delightful Mr. Fantish,
who really is the most disagreeable man in the world—
to me, at least.”
And Sansoucy smoked his cigar without looking at his
friend. A deeper shadow had settled upon his countenance
and he was silent.
“Miss Incledon looked beautiful,” continued Sansoucy,
gazing into the fire, “and I really could not wonder at
the attention she attracted. She was the centre of all
eyes.”
“Was she?” said Mr. Incledon, with a pallor which
spectre.
“Yes,” Sansoucy said, “and Mr. Fantish also was
quite a lion. He seemed to enjoy the opera, I think—in
fact, Zerlina's song was admirably done. Why, Ralph,”
said Sansoucy, turning round, “you are as white as a
sheet! Are you sick?”
“No—I felt badly—sitting so long here;—how did the
opera end—with the catastrophe, as usual?”
And having uttered these words with an affectation of
indifference, which would have deeply touched Sansoucy
if he had known all, Mr. Incledon leaned back, and
gradually grew calm, as his friend spoke.
“It ended admirably,” said Sansoucy. “The statue
of the commander came in duly; the Don went through
his `doom-stagger,' as I remember seeing it styled in some
high-flown critique, and it ended with the tableau of his
descent into hell—represented by red fire-light on a huge
cavern—of pasteboard.”
Having achieved this accurate description of the opera,
Sansoucy smoked again.
Incledon was silent for some time, and then said, with
perfect calmness:
“That is a scene capable of very effective management,
Ernest—what do you think of the strange conception of
the originator of the plot?”
“I think with you, that it is original and strange.”
“And the retribution?”
“Why, just, of course.”
“A singular idea in the author—was it not?—to make
a spirit instrumental in the punishment of this man.”
“Very.”
“If a man had punished him?”
“Why,” Sansoucy said, “it is plain the idea would be
greatly inferior to the present. There is more interest
felt by an audience in the appearance of a statue walking,
and a visible descent into hell, than in a common duel
with swords. Cut, thrust! cross over—thrust, cut! cross
back again! Beat tin swords together duly for fifteen
minutes, approach the foot-lights, fall in an attitude, and
there 's a stage death; very noisy, but scarcely as striking
as the divine retribution in the opera.”
“No, you are right!” said Incledon, “and now let us
leave the subject. Have you seen Aurelia, your `friend
of youth,' lately?”
“Have I seen her!” said Sansoucy, laughing and sighing;
“I think I have.”
“Frequently?”
“Every day.”
“Recalling old times?”
“No; they seem to be forgotten.”
And Mr. Sansoucy sighed again.
“The fact is, Ralph,” he said, at length, “I am afraid
I was mistaken in Aurelia, and that I knelt to a goddess
of my own imagination. I thought she was tender and
soft, and she 's a very ball of fire; her wit corruscates like
lightning, and generally leaves me dazzled, if not struck—
moon-struck would probably be the better word,” added
Mr. Sansoucy, smiling, and rising, “and I foresee that
there as a veritable `fancy sketch!”'
Having uttered these melancholy words, Mr. Sansoucy
threw away the end of his cigar, and wrapped his coat
around him.
“You are not going?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Shall I see you soon again?”
“Perhaps to-morrow—I 'll come and whisper my grievances
to your friendly ears. I don't conceal from you
that I am dreadfully jealous of a gentleman called Heartsease,
who escorted Miss Ashton to the opera to-night.
Aurelia attracted general admiration—but I am bound to
say, was not gazed at as attentively as Miss Incledon.”
With these words, and a friendly good-night, Sansoucy
departed, smiling.
How often do a man's friends torture him, without
dreaming of the effect produced by their words, uttered
so carelessly, and in such deep ignorance of the tender
spots they pierce like barbed arrows!
26. CHAPTER XXVI.
HOW MR. INCLEDON CALLED ON MR. FANTISH, AND WHAT
PASSED.
At ten o'clock on the following morning, Mr. Incledon
presented himself at the door of Mr. Fantish's residence,
and giving his card to the servant, demanded speech of
his master.
His master had just sent for his carriage, the servant
said—indeed the open vehicle, with its fiery horses, drew
up as he uttered these words—but he would take up the
card.
Mr. Incledon was shown into an elegant sitting room,
where Mr. Fantish was accustomed to receive his friends,
at all hours of the night and day, and ten minutes after
his entrance Mr. Fantish appeared, accompanied by Captain
Tarnish, whose waistcoat, watch chain, cane, and
mustache were in their full splendor.
Mr. Fantish was elegantly dressed, and smoothed carelessly
his glossy hat, as he bowed superciliously to Mr.
Incledon.
“Good morning, sir,” said that gentleman, rising and
bowing with great calmness, “can you give me a few moments
of your time?”
“Yes, sir; though I am just upon the point of going
out.”
“Alone, sir, I should have said.”
“I have no secrets from my friend, Captain Tarnish.”
“My business is private.”
“You need not be afraid of me, sir,” interposed Captain
Tarnish, grandly, “I am secrecy itself.”
“I do not question it, sir,” Mr. Incledon said, “but I
repeat that my business is private.”
Captain Tarnish assumed his most imposing swagger,
and measured him who uttered these calm words, with a
look which he in vain endeavored to make dignified.
Probably the inspection did not satisfy him of the fact
that his opponent was impressible to menace; and he
turned on his heel and said:
“Well, I will go, sir.”
After which, Captain Tarnish curled his mustache,
hastily, and strolled into the passage—leaving the door
open behind him, no doubt by inadvertence.
Mr. Incledon rose and shut it, and then turned to Mr.
Fantish.
For a moment these two men, who concealed beneath
the stereotyped forms of etiquette, a mutual hostility,
gazed at each other in silence, and without motion. They
seemed to be measuring each other for the struggle—to
test their relative strength.
“Well, sir,” said Mr. Fantish, at length, “the motive
of your visit. It can scarcely be a friendly call.”
“Why not?” said Mr. Incledon, with that perfect
calmness of voice and look which denotes the man sure of
his position, and quite prepared.
“Because I am a very great reprobate, and—”
“I am not? Is that your meaning, sir?”
“Mr. Incledon!”
Mr. Incledon inclined his head in the manner of one
who listens.
“It is idle to affect, sir, that we occupy a position of
hostility toward each other!” said Mr. Fantish, with a
cold look, “I therefore explicitly request you to explain
your motive in calling upon me.”
“I will, certainly,” said Mr. Incledon. “Are you
aware, sir, that Miss Incledon, whom you visit, is my
cousin?”
“I believe so, sir.”
“Are you aware, sir, of the relations I sustain toward
her? Further relations I mean.”
“No, sir.”
“I will explain these. Miss Incledon was entrusted to
my care by her father, who requested me to watch over
her welfare, and I have done so faithfully, and have found
no subject for disquiet until lately. Lately, sir, I have,
at different times, heard of jests which you have uttered
at her expense. Whether these jests are true or not I do
not stop to inquire. The nature of these jests, however,
are quite unmistakeable, and they consist in the allegation,
upon your part, that she persecutes you with a fondness
which is disagreeable to you, and ridiculous. Am I
right, sir, in believing that you have uttered words to this
effect, in numerous places, and on different occasions?”
The look which accompanied Mr. Incledon's words
was so calm and cold, his whole manner so collected, and
measured, that Mr. Fantish, who would have received a
burst of anger, with one of laughter, for a moment lost
his self-possession, and colored with irritation.
“Your purpose, sir!” he said, at length, “in asking
this question! Your purpose, if it please you, sir!”
“That is not necessary, sir.”
“I consider it essentially necessary, sir!”
“Why?”
“Mr. Incledon, I am not to be catechised—I am not a
child to be brow-beaten!”
“I did not suppose such a thing, sir.”
“If you did not suppose it, you have acted as you would
have done with such a supposition, sir! and I ask again
what your purpose in holding this interview may be. If
you wish to throw me a defiance, sir—!”
“I may?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Thank you, Mr. Fantish, I do not purpose defying
you, though this will not seem to you to arise from a deficiency
of nerve for that ceremony. We were well acquainted
at college, I believe, and you can scarcely think
me lacking in the commonest and poorest courage—that
of the animal.”
“I think nothing, sir—I say only that this interview is
disagreeable.”
“I expected it would be, sir.”
“Your purpose, if you please, sir—for the last time.”
“Do not grow heated, sir: I see no reason why you
should, unless you are angry with me, for preserving my
temper. Your failure to deny the charges against you,
which I have repeated, convinces me, Mr. Fantish, that
you are not able to deny them, and that public rumor has
not falsified your words. That is the position in which
these things are not the blind calumnies of a false public
speech, but actual utterances of your own. And now, sir,
I ask you—in what attitude are you placed by this, which
you do not even pretend to deny. I will tell you, sir,”
said Mr. Incledon, with cold dignity. “I will tell you, sir,
what you have accomplished by this jest. You have made
the name of a young girl the laughing-stock of the place in
which she lives, at least for the time: you have given to
men, like this person who just left us, the power of coupling
with the mention of a lady who bears the name of an
honorable and unspotted family, the rudest and most degrading
jests—you have placed yourself, in all the strength
of your manhood, with all the advantages of your knowledge
of the world, opposite and in hostility to a young
girl, who has left her home for the first time in her life,
and who will soon find her punishment in the titter, which
will greet her appearance in every ball-room. What chivalry,
sir! And it is no palliation of all this, if even what
you assert is true, that she has persecuted you with her
attention—nay, her fondness—that you find yourself in a
reversed position, followed by the woman. It is no excuse,
sir, that you have been treated thus;—none, absolutely
none. Nothing prevents you from retreating from this
foolish infatuation—there is absolutely nothing to excuse
your visits to that house, or what you have been pleased
to say about my cousin. No, sir! do not grind your teeth
and point to your duelling pistols—they are a poor plaster
for a young girl's reputation, wounded by your unmanly
jests, and I have much to say to you, sir. You know I
question—I do not even utter these words as Miss Incledon's
cousin. I do not wish to have any portion of my
own feelings mixed with this—I ask nothing, resent nothing,
attack nobody—I only defend those I have said I would
defend!”
“Well, sir! well! defend them—I offer you the means!”
“Your pistols, sir?”—
“Yes! there!”
And seizing the box containing the weapons, Mr. Fantish
burst it open, and taking out one of the pistols
cocked it, and pointed Mr. Incledon to the other.
“I have said already,” continued that gentleman, calmly,
“that I do not recognize this tribunal.”
“You say, sir, forsooth, that you are displeased with
me!”
“Yes, sir,
“I am very naughty, a bad child,” said Mr. Fantish,
with a sneer—“I suppose I am to be whipped. This is
folly and insult, sir! There is your pistol,—take your
stand and I will give you now, the opportunity of chastising
me.”
“I will not take up that pistol,” said Mr. Incledon,
calmly, “I refuse for the third time.”
“Am I to take your life, sir?” said Mr. Fantish, pale
with rage, and raising his pistol.
“No, sir, there is no obligation upon you to perform so
foolish an action. Come, sir, let us throw aside these
puerile contentions—lower that weapon; such menaces,
sir, only frighten children. I think you would like to kill
your eyes reveal your indecision;—and if you are not prepared
to pull that trigger, which your forefinger does not
touch, your attitudinizing is a farce. You cannot suppose,
sir, that it will frighten me, for you know me, and are perfectly
well acquainted with the fact that fear is not an
element of my character.”
Mr. Fantish, with a cold sneer, lowered his pistol, as if
convinced of the folly of his action, and said:
“You talk very well, sir, and are very eloquent on the
subject of your courage!”
“No, sir,” said his opponent; “you are mistaken. I
do not boast of the power I possess of looking into the
muzzle of a pistol without trembling. I no more boast
of this faculty than I do of my height, or strength, or the
color of my complexion. It pleased God to give me
animal courage, and I affect nothing. It is you who are
affected in offering me a weapon which I cannot and will
not touch—a fact perfectly well known to you, and no
doubt, one that subjects me to your pity and contempt.
Well, well, sir! I can endure that dreadful infliction, and
am not affected by it, for I have a purpose quite beyond
all this. I did not come to insult you, sir—to taunt you—
to utter reproaches or complaints: I came to ask nothing
for myself, or for any other person—nothing, sir!”
An expression of astonishment, which he could not
repress, mingled with the white rage in Mr. Fantish's
countenance, and grasping the back of a chair until it
cracked, he said between his clenched teeth.
“Well, sir! having finished your moral discourse, perhaps
you will condescend to tell me what you really came for!”
Incledon looked at Mr. Fantish for a moment without
speaking, and such was the dignity and calmness of this
look, that it produced even some effect upon his adversary.
“Mr. Fantish,” he said, “do you remember our acquaintance
at college? I see you do,—well, sir, at that
time you had not become the reckless and selfish man that
you are now. You had vices, but they were mingled with
much that was such as all men might respect. You think
me guilty of an unpardonable piece of rudeness in speaking
to you with such brutal frankness—perhaps I should
not, but it is necessary for me to say this much, in order
that I may convey to you my meaning in what follows.
You left college at about the same period with myself—
you became a man of the world, I became a man of books.
I grew better, I am sure—you, sir, grew worse. It is
shocking, repulsive, insulting, for me to speak thus; your
face says, and you are angry enough to strike me down
with that chair you hold. But that is not to the purpose,
sir. I know that you possess undeniable courage, even
perfect recklessness, and a heart which is completely closed
to anything of remonstrance, which comes from a man
holding the position that I do in relation to yourself.
You despise me for regulating my actions by the law of
God, instead of by the prejudices of man—you consider
me a puritan, and a Pharisee; and any remonstrance that
I could utter, I repeat, would fall from you like water
from a rock—your only reply would be a scoff. That is
address you without ceremony or preamble. I repeat
then that you have deteriorated since you left college;
you have nearly lost all the purity that you once possessed;
but I do not believe that you have lost it entirely. I
address this small portion of good remaining in you, it is
true, but I address myself rather to your common-sense as
a man, when I ask you, if you are not performing an action,
in the matter we are talking of, which is unworthy of you
if a spark of honor remains in your composition; which is
dangerous to you if a particle of respect for the opinions
of men directs your actions. You go upon a dangerous
path, sir, when you array yourself against a girl, and that
public execration which visits such things sooner or later,
will strike you and overwhelm you. Oh, sir! you are
tired of your expression of wrath and menace, you begin
to curl your lips in derision of the very idea of your feeling
any regard for public opinion. That is an evidence
that you do not despise it, Mr. Fantish; as your new
emotion is an evidence that you do not know where to
attack me. I see, sir, that you scarcely know how to reply
to me; that you only await my shaping my few remaining
words into a request, to throw it from you with contempt.
I make no request, sir—I finish what I intended to say
when I entered here, by adding, that if you are not completely
lost to all sense of honor and chivalry, you will no
longer visit, or mention the name of a young lady whose
only defence will be an abandonment of the town in which
you persecute her. Your refusal to discontinue your
advances will only have the effect of driving a young lady
your chivalry!”
Mr. Incledon would have gone after these words, but a
gesture, so coldly menacing that it made him frown,
arrested him.
“It is true, sir,” said Mr. Fantish, white with concentrated
passion, “that you acted with a rare knowledge of
my character in speaking, to use your own words, with this
brutal and insulting frankness—it is true that I would
have rejected any remonstrance from you with contempt,
and that I now compliment your eloquence with undoubted
anger in place of contempt; but that is not all, sir!
You have presumed to charge me with dishonorable conduct
toward Miss Incledon—to catechise and reprimand
me as though I were your pupil, you my schoolmaster—
and this because I refuse to `discontinue my advances,'
as you word it, toward Miss Incledon, who has taken anything
like advances wholly on herself. Well, sir, you
shall learn now that I am not a child! You have refused
to give me the satisfaction due from one gentleman to
another, and I will publicly brand you as a man recreant
to all the dictates of gentlemanly honor!”
“Pshaw, sir,” said Mr. Incledon, wholly unmoved by
this outburst, “you will do nothing of the sort—for your
only reward will be the admiration of your friend, Captain
Tarnish and his associates. If you were to do so, however,
sir, you would state a truth which I never scruple to
express, that I do deny completely my allegiance to the
`dictates of gentlemanly honor.”'
“You mentioned my name, sir!” said a threatening
that it seemed not improbable that Captain Tarnish had
been listening. “Be good enough, sir, to repeat your
remark, sir!”
Mr. Incledon wheeled round and surveyed the martial
Captain with as much indignation as contempt. Then,
unable to repress something of his old nature, he said in
a tone of freezing hauteur:
“I have not the pleasure of your acquaintance, and I
will not repeat my words, sir!”
“Then, sir—”
But Captain Tarnish was not an object in his adversary's
mental horizon—he had turned his back upon the
military gentleman, and drawn two steps closer to his real
adversary.
“Mr. Fantish,” he said, speaking in a voice so deep and
solemn that it seemed to fill the whole apartment, and
grew almost painful in its low and distinct coldness;
“Mr. Fantish, there is still a last word which I wish to
say to you before I go—before I go, for you will scarcely
try to murder me before I leave this room. That last
word, sir, is one that you will doubtless listen to with contempt;
but that is little. My last word is—take care!
Yes, sir, beware of the path you advance upon, treading
down faith, and truth, and all which God, who made you,
has erected over you! Beware how you tread too carelessly
upon the dizzy verge which you are standing now
upon! I, who have followed evil like yourself, though
not such evil, or as far—I tell you that the God you laugh
at, sir, is not a bugbear of the nursery, to frighten children!
my sight as good, and that I am not blinded by a mockery
and a delusion. I tell you that God reigns above you—
that you are a worm beneath him—that, if you go on
in your present career, he will one day stretch out his hand
and crush you like a dangerous and venomous insect! I
tell you, sir, moreover, that your very sensual delights
will become your poison—that your worn-out body will
break down and burst beneath the strain upon it—that
the things you now regard as brightest, will be curses to
you when you die, amid the execration of all men who
hate impurity! I tell you that the God you laugh at will
have no pity for you, living and dying thus!—that if you
ever had a mother, she will never look again upon your
face! I tell you that the scoff you throw toward God
will bound back on you, and be torture to you when you
fall, struck down by one who awaits his time, and will not
spare you! That is the warning which he utters in your
hearing, sir, through myself, his poor and humble instrument.
That you despise it, or obey it, is not my affair—
it is yours! And now, sir, I take my leave of you. I
expected nothing from this interview; I am not disappointed.
I had my duty to do—that I have done—and
we go separate ways. Good morning, sir!”
And with a bow as calm and cold as upon his entrance,
Mr. Incledon passed by Captain Tarnish, who drew back
before him, and passed out, leaving Mr. Fantish trembling
with rage and menace, and a self-contempt that made him
paler that a ghost.
Yes, self-contempt!
Yes, there was that much good left in this man, worn
out with evil passions, by debaucheries, by orgies, where
the mention of anything not wholly impure, was met with
laughter and derision. Yes, this man shook, when his
mother was recalled to him, recoiled from the picture of
himself, felt his heart sink and fail with a sick loathing of
himself, and human life, and the whole universe.
He would have struck down and annihilated the man
who thus degraded him, if his weak nerves had been
obedient; but this could not remove that terrible and
infinitely humiliating fact—the fact that he despised and
loathed himself!
27. CHAPTER XXVII.
HOW A MAN WAS TREATED BY A WOMAN—A CHAPTER
OF INTEREST TO PHILOSOPHERS.
As he had stated, Mr. Incledon expected nothing from
the interview with Mr. Fantish; and his visit had been
prompted solely by the feeling that it was his duty to do
something of this description, before speaking to his
cousin again upon the subject.
Perhaps the impression made upon Mr. Fantish was as
great as possibly could have been made under the circumstances,
by his adversary; and as he had himself acknowledged,
any mere remonstrance would have been received
with derision. Upon a man of high feeling, Mr. Incledon's
calm representations would have made a deep impression—but
had almost extinguished any such emotion in his
bosom long ago—and this Mr. Incledon knew, and acted
as with the knowledge of.
The result of the interview was such as he expected:—
a great deal of anger, an immense hostility, and a small
portion of shame, upon his opponent's part. But this
latter would scarely lead him to abate his insulting conduct:—and
what Mr. Incledon now had before him was
the preparation of his cousin for departure.
Once this man's old nature rising up, had whispered to
him, “Take your vengeance in your own hands; strike,
and rid yourself of this scoffing persecutor.” But he had
repelled this suggestion of his anger, without considering
it further, and had said to himself, calmly, “This is not
for me—I am not the avenger:—I will do my duty.”
Perhaps some feeling of this description assailed him
as he left the house of Mr. Fantish, where he had been met
with insults such as would, a few years before, have caused
that gentleman to lose his life. But if such thoughts
really came to him, they did not linger long in his mind.
He went on repeating, calmly, to himself—“My duty is
quite plain, and every purpose will be accomplished by
Sylvia's departure—more terrible things may be prevented.”
He reached the house, and knocked, and entered.
Miss Incledon was surrounded by several gentlemen,
and was singing gaily at the piano.
Mr. Incledon bowed low, and exchanged salutations
He remained thus, without any visible purpose, until
every gentleman had departed; and then closing the door,
took a seat opposite to his cousin.
She seemed to feel that there was something more than
a common visit intended by Mr. Incledon; and with a
vague disquiet, gazed into his collected countenance, endeavoring
to fathom its meaning, and drag up the thoughts
of her adversary—such she regarded him—buried beneath
that calmness.
But Mr. Incledon's countenance defied her most piercing
scrutiny—it betrayed nothing; and beating the carpet
impatiently with her small foot, the young lady assumed
for Mr. Incledon's benefit, the air of an irritated queen,
who was waiting to be addressed by a rebellions subject.
The comparison was not so fanciful as it may seem.
As we have said, Miss Incledon was a woman of rare
and commanding beauty, and when she chose, she could
mount, as it were, her throne, and assume, to admiration,
all the royalty of a queen. She had not that delicate and
tender loveliness which takes the heart captive, and
“lends the knee desire to kneel,” as to something pure
and beautiful, and more closely allied to things heavenly,
than anything else on earth, except it be childhood, which
such loveliness resembled—Miss Incledon had not this
beauty, which Mr. Sansoney's friend, Aurelia, certainly
possessed in a degree: but still she was a young lady of
striking beauty, and her brilliant eyes, and cheeks, and
her undeniable claims to admiration.
As she sat now opposite to Mr. Incledon, she was
evidently conscious of the possession of this advantage,
and her beautiful head was thrown back haughtily. With
one hand she fixed a bracelet on her dazzling white arm
—and having fixed it to her satisfaction, smoothed down
the folds of her rich silk morning dress, which swept with
its changeable sheen, the carpet at her feet.
Mr. Incledon gazed at her for a moment, and an
expression almost of sadness passed over his brow, and
dimmed his eyes. All the sensibility of his nature was
aroused within him by the unfortunate and deplorable
array of circumstances which placed him thus in hostility
to a woman whom he had loved. But there was his duty,
as he understood it, and his face very soon grew calm
again.
“Silvia,” he said, calmly: “I have just been to see
Mr. Fantish.”
The young woman could not repress a slight start, and
a faint tinge of color in her cheeks.
“Mr. Fantish!” she said, with an affection of coldness,
which was belied by the eager expression of her dark eyes.
“Yes,” said her visitor: “I have been with that gentleman
for an hour nearly.”
“Well, sir!”
And by a powerful effort she drove back the rebellious
blood to her heart, and gave him look for look, and
braced her resolution for the struggle.
Mr. Incledon, however, did not seem to feel that he
for himself. On the contrary, his eye and voice were
quite as calm and soft as ever when he spoke, and he
exhibited no emotion of any description.
“I was led to call upon Mr. Fantish,” he continued:
“by a recurrence of the reports which caused me so much
grief on your account; and which I had supposed Mr.
Fantish would not permit to occur again. Of these base
jests at your expense, Silvia, I will not speak. It is
enough to say that in the exercise of my discretion, based
upon my promise to your father, it seemed proper to me
that I should call on Mr. Fantish.”
Again the blood came to her cheek, and she said,
bitterly:
“Well, sir—I suppose you are my guardian, and that
I am a child to be directed and regulated. I am not
surprised!”
“You should not be,” he returned; “and I regret
deeply that you should regard what I have done, Silvia,
as an impertinence, and an insult. Do not deny it,
Silvia—that would be useless: your eyes speak.”
“I do not deny it, sir!” she said, carried away by her
anger.
He only bowed, and then said:
“Mr. Fantish and myself discussed at length the subject
of these reports, and the interview was far from being
a very friendly one—”
“As I suppose, sir!”
“Your supposition, Silvia, is quite correct. Indeed
how could we speak as friends?”
“I can understand why you could not, sir! Mr. Fantish
is a friend of mine.”
“How unjust you are.”
“Unjust!”
“Yes—terribly. It is a bitter injustice to thus hurl in
my teeth, Silvia, such a charge as this—that I am your
enemy.”
“Are you not, sir?”
“Oh, no: a thousand times, no!”
“I do not like such friends, sir.”
He looked at her cold and disdainful countenance for
some moments and an expression of softness and pity
came to his calm face, and he sighed audibly.
“Such friends?” he said; “you do not like such
friends, Silvia? what have I done to make you hate me?”
She did not deny the feeling imputed to her by look or
word, but said, angrily, and with a flushed countenance.
“I will tell you, sir, what you have done! You have
placed yourself before me, sir, at every turn—you have
chosen to regard the commonplace speech made by my
father, when I left home, as an authority to watch, and
spy out, and misconstrue all my movements! You have
treated me—a grown woman—as if I were a baby! and
have affected through all this, the greatest magnanimity
and nobleness forsooth! and talked about your duty,
making that your apology for your insufferable persecution!”
The flushed face and burning eyes were turned full
upon him, and the young woman's hands trembled with
anger as she extended them in the heat of speaking, toward
insult and hostility—her white teeth for a moment closed;
and her eyes glared as only those of a woman thoroughly
aroused, can.
But he remained calm. The sad expression deepened:
and his voice was softer and more pitying than ever when
he said:
“Insufferable persecution?” Do you, then, regard my
brotherly regard and solicitude for your welfare, Silvia,
as an insufferable persecution?”
“Yes, sir, I do!” she said, “I do! Your brotherly
regard and solicitude, as you are pleasad to call it, sir, is
a very convenient sentiment, and adapts itself without difficulty
to any action you perform in relation to myself.
Perhaps, it would be better to say—if I am forced to
speak, sir,—that your `regard' for me was something
more than `brotherly'—and that `solicitude' you speak of
caused by something else than duty!”
“Something else?” he said, softly—“by what else,
Silvia?”
“By jealousy, sir! You affect to pity me, and you will
end by making me hate you, sir!” said the young woman,
with burning cheeks, and carried away by rage, at what
she considered an exhibition of contempt upon her visitor's
part: you affect to pity me! and you reply to my
defence of myself against your calumnies, by an affectation
of pity,' and—with an injured air—and then you drawl
out `Silvia,' to make me think you are not moved! Be
good enough, sir, added the young woman, completely
aroused, and trying to affect haughtiness; be good enough
aware of any right you have to address me as you do!”
“I will not, if it is disagreeable to you—”
“It is, sir!”
He bowed his head.
It is, and you will oblige me, sir, by ceasing to address
me thus from this time forth!”
He bowed again: the old expression of softness and
pity had never left his face for a moment.
“It is a little thing to ask,” he said, “I only grieve to
think that, trifle as it is, however, it is prompted by a sentiment
of hostility which I deeply lament, but cannot help.
I have only striven to do my duty.”
“Duty! there it is again, sir—your duty!”
“Oh, yes!”
“And this prompted, doubtless, that fine `brotherly
solicitude' you spoke of, sir!”
“Indeed, it did!”
The beautiful lip curled, and she said, with a sneer,
which was painful to see.
“I repeat, sir, that your solicitude was anything but
`brotherly!' You condescended to place your affection
upon my humble self; and when I chose to exercise my right
as a free woman, to prefer another—you became very solicitious
all at once about my welfare—and your `brotherly
solicitude' assumed the shape of hostility to Mr. Fantish.
“Jealousy! oh, Silvia! Silvia!—pardon me! You
say again that I have acted as I have done from jealousy
of Mr. Fantish? What a deep injustice.”
“Yes, I do, sir! I assert it plainly, as you drive me
to call it, in a former interview—your uneasiness about
me, I say, commenced, just when you found that your
addresses were becoming disagreeable—when I preferred,
you thought, another person. You came one morning,
sir, if you will deign to recollect, and, because I did not
leave my hand in your own, as we sat there upon the
sofa!—because I drew away the tress of my hair which
you curled around your finger!—because I said that our
cousinly familiarity must not be gone on with—because I
told you that, sir, you must suddenly assume that I am in
a dangerous position: that Mr. Fantish is a dishonorable
man, and that your lordship must watch over your bondwoman
and preserve her from your rival.”
Pausing, overwhelmed with bitter and scornful passion,
the young woman panted, and trembled, and grew by turns
pale and crimson with her rage.
Every word she uttered pierced his heart; and his most
cruel enemy could not have devised a punishment more
bitter to his high and noble nature. The bitter words
struck all his pride, and the recollection of his pure and
gentle love. That he should be charged with acting from
a base and miserable selfishness, instead of from a large
and noble sense of duty!—that he should be accused of
such hypocrisy, as he drew back from, in his very imagination,
with a shudder!—that, lastly, the woman whom
he had regarded as a tender and lovely girl, and so commenced
loving purely and deeply, should thus cast in his
teeth, with bitter scorn, the scenes in which he had exhibited
his innocent fondness! Surely—he thought with a
that launched this bitterly poisoned arrow, must be cruel
indeed!
Only a flitting shadow, however, betrayed the passage
of such thoughts as these, through Mr. Incledon's heart.
With that strength of control, which he had struggled for
through years, and at last attained, he forcibly suppressed
any exhibition of his emotion, and regarded the young
woman, when she concluded her bitter speech, with a calm
softness, even more marked than before.
“Silvia!” he said, gently, “and I must ask you to pardon
me for thus addressing you—for I cannot school myself
so soon to that hostility and coldness, which you say
we have adopted toward each other—Silvia, the words
you have just uttered, would, perhaps, arouse in me some
of that ill-temper, which is my besetting sin, if I did not
feel convinced that these expressions are the fruits of momentary
irritation—an irritation I have had the bad fortune,
I am afraid, to cause; and which I lament deeply—
from the bottom of my heart. I cannot bring myself to
think that in your cooler moments you would taunt me
thus with having experienced for you an affection, pure
and sincere—and scoff at me for the innocent exhibition
of my feeling. You say, that because one day you drew
back from my customary familiarity—that because you
drew away the hand you gave me always—disengaged the
tress I touched—and warned me that you could not suffer
me to approach you thus familiarly again—you say that
in consequence of this, I became jealous; that I watched
your movements—that I acted the spy to find out who had
given to Mr. Fantish, recollected suddenly your father's
charge to me—and used that charge to gain an advantage
over one I looked on as my rival! This you accuse me of;
and I should be astonished at the ingenuity of your accusation,
if it did not cause me so much pain. Your lip
curls, Silvia, and you think my tone of calmness proves
that I am acting. Oh, I am not, Silvia! You are not
able even to conceive the pain you cause me by these cruel
and unjust words. A thousand times unjust!—a thousand
times more cruel than I deserve! In the presence of my
God, Silvia, to whom I owe allegiance, and who reads the
secrets of all hearts—before God and man, I declare that
this is bitterly unjust! That I loved you then I do not
deny—that your affection was the dream and desire of my
whole being I will not deny—that the repulse you gave
me, caused me many hours of suffering and melancholy,
I will not conceal. But never, on my honor, as a gentleman!
by my faith as a Christian gentleman, never did I
follow you, or watch your movements, or endeavor to supplant
the man who took my place, or thwart you! Had
Mr. Fantish been an honorable man, he never even would
have known that the poor gentleman he passed coming
out sorrowfully, as he entered with a smile, had been made
miserable by his appearance! He never would have
known that he had made me suffer—never! I would
have yielded you to an honorable gentleman, without a
word, and gone away and left you to your joy and happiness!
But, Silvia, I am forced to say again—to repeat
always, for the fact is my sole vindication—I am forced
that he looks upon women as his playthings! that he is
utterly incapable of pure affection,—and that what he has
done has proved the truth of this a thousand times!”
Mr. Incledon's calm face grew dark as he spoke, but he
suppressed this evidence of feeling quickly, and went on,
without regarding the looks of burning anger which the
young lady cast upon him.
“And now, Silvia,” he said, “I have brought my vindication
to the time, when driven by my duty—by my
promise, sacredly given to your father—I found myself
compelled to take up a position of hostility to this
gentleman. I heard everywhere that he was in the habit
of making speeches about yourself which no honorable
man could bring his lips to utter! I heard in the street,
at entertainments, in my evening visits to my friends,
those stories which a certain class of persons spend their
lives in whispering through society, and you were the
heroine of them! I heard that Mr. Fantish made your
love for him the subject of his gayest and most brilliant
jests! I heard, that in the circle which he frequents, the
utterance of your name had become the signal for a burst
of laughter! I heard that your very entrance into party
rooms, would soon become the occasion of a suppressed
titter! and that every person would deride you, and say
of you, further, what my lips will not utter—what my
brain cannot conceive, but draws back from, sick and
incredulous, and scornful! Do you understand now! Do
you comprehend the state of things I was forced to
measure, coolly and calmly, with fiery eyes—to brace my
you see now that some other sentiment than jealousy
aroused my fear and anger, and what you have styled my
persecution, my impertinence! If you do not see this—
if you still close your eyes—you are stone blind, or wilfully
blind—and I can only tell you, that you walk upon
a slumbering volcano!”
The suppressed excitement with which Mr. Incledon
uttered these words, was more impressive than the most
passionate outburst; and for a moment the young lady's
eye fell before his fixed look—for an instant her lips grew
pale; and she pressed her hand upon her heart as though
she were about to faint.
Had this suppression lasted a few moments longer, Mr.
Incledon would have lost his self-possession—melted from
his stern feeling—and besought her to forget his words,
the painful facts they dealt with—everything but her old
country home, and those who loved her—and so come
with him—and pardon anything in his words which had
offended her—and going to her parents, never look upon
his face again, if it was painful to her. All his tenderness
of heart was aroused by the position he sustained—
a position to which a vortex of fate had hurled him without
any exercise of will on his part—a position of hostility
to, and contest with a woman. Convinced as he
was, that every step he had taken was forced on him by
uncompromising duty—that he could not have done differently—that
his honor, and his cousin's, both called out
for this—nothing but this—still his chivalry of gentleman
made him tremble at the thought of using even what resembled
Miss Incledon had shed a single tear; if the least tremor
in her voice had shown that she was overcome by the
terrible array of facts—Mr. Incledon would have lost his
calmness wholly—begged for her forgiveness, and besought
her, on his knees, if necessary, to go with him,
home to her parents, from the town in which she had experienced
such suffering!
Mr. Incledon did not know his cousin. Instead of
raising her eyes in tears, she erected her head haughtily,
and looked at him with a fire which would speedily have
dried up any moisture in her brilliant eyes. Her manner
was more defiant than ever—her beautiful lip curled with
more bitter scorn—she resembled nothing so much as a
beautiful tigress, ready to spring upon her enemy.
“Well, sir,” she said: and her words were almost exactly
those of Mr. Fantish an hour before. “Well, sir!
if you have finished your fine discourse upon propriety,
perhaps you will deign to inform me of the purpose of
this visit!”
He gazed at her with an expression impossible to describe,
and was silent for some minutes. Then gradually,
and, as it were, one by one, all these complicated emotions
disappeared, and his perfect calmness came back—very
soon, even his old softness. Perhaps no day in his whole
life presented so fine an exhibition of this man's high dignity
and delicacy of temperament, as the few moments in
which this change took place.
When he spoke it was with as much calmness and gentleness,
as if he had not been insulted, outraged, scoffed
agreeable conversation with a cherished friend.”
28. CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE LETTER.
“Silvia,” he said, gently, “I commenced this interview
by saying that I had been to see Mr. Fantish.”
“You did, sir!”
“If, unhappily, we had not fallen into this discussion—”
“Say this quarrel, sir!”
“No; I have not quarreled with you, and will not. If,
I say, we had not been betrayed into this melancholy discussion,
I would have explained to you at once the purpose
of my visit.
“Well, sir, you can do so now.”
“I will proceed to do so; and if any word of mine is
worth your attention, let me beseech you not to load me
with those reproaches and bitter speeches, which you seem
to think—”
“You deserve, sir! Is that your meaning?”
“No, Silvia,” he said, sadly.
“Well, sir, I will endeavor to forget the causes of
complaint I have against you, and listen calmly.”
She looked so dignified as she spoke thus, and assumed
an expression of so much injured innocence that it might
have made a great actress envy her.
“I called on Mr. Fantish this morning,” said Mr. Incledon,
“and informed him that I had heard all the details
of these unhappy matters.”
“Indeed, sir!”
“Yes.”
“No doubt he was entertained by your visit!”
“How scornful you are, Silvia.”
“Because you compel me to be, sir.”
“I would not.”
“You do.”
“I deeply regret that my very voice should have this
effect upon you then: but let me proceed.”
“I listen, sir.”
“I informed Mr. Fantish of our relationship—”
“Which he knew already.”
“Yes—and that made it a greater trial.”
“Indeed, sir!”
“Yes; an insult to a gentleman's friend may anger
him—an insult to his cousin cuts him like a sword.”
“I am flattered at hearing you retain so much brotherly
regard for me!”
“Ah, Silvia! Silvia! how you wound me. You are
not content to hear that my interview with Mr. Fantish
was a great trial—”
“You brought it upon yourself by your own act, I
believe, sir! Did Mr. Fantish request the interview?”
Mr. Incledon shok his head sadly, and gave up the
discussion without further words.
“I said, Silvia,” he continued, “that Mr. Fantish was
cognizant of the fact of our relationship throughout the
must add that he knew of the charge which your father
gave me.”
“The charge—”
“Yes, Silvia.”
“Of your lordship's quality of guardian!”
Arrested incessantly thus by these bitter and scornful
taunts, Mr. Incledon nevertheless did not lose his temper.
“I informed Mr. Fantish,” he said, calmly, “that I had
called in right of my relationship, and in further right of
my charge from your father, to say that the continuance
of the jest in relation to yourself, Silvia, would make it
necessary for you to abandon the city.”
“You presumed to threaten that!” cried Miss Incledon,
in a perfect rage.
“Yes,” was the reply, “it was my only course, Silvia.”
“You presumed, sir, to say that my movements would
be coerced by yourself, in case—”
He went on thus: “Yes, Silvia, that is what I felt it
my duty to say to Mr. Fantish, though not precisely that.”
And Mr. Incledon gazed sadly at the countenance,
whose beauty had all fallen away, and been swallowed up
in the storm of passion.
For a time Miss Incledon glared at him—one can find
no other word—as though she would have struck him to
the earth with her eyes. Then finding her speech, she
cried passionately:
“You are most brave, sir! most courageous! You
are exceedingly chivalric and disinterested! How I
admire and respect you, and look up to you for your
cried, losing her affected irony, and yielding to a mad
rage. “I call you a dishonored gentleman! I say you have
not one spark of that honor which your family expected
of you—that it is a taint to be connected with you as I
am, sir! You would run away with me, forsooth, sir!
You would take me away! try it, sir! Yes, sir, you
have acted nobly! You say that my honor required this
visit—you say that Mr. Fantish has uttered slanders
against me, which is false!—you say that I will be the
laughing-stock of society, if something is not done in this
terrible and dreadful emergency! Did it not occur to
you, sir, that there was something possible besides running
away—besides threatening to carry me away, a
threat, sir, which you will not dare to perform!—did it
never strike you, sir, when you went to see Mr. Fantish,
that if you are a gentleman, and possess a spark of
courage, there is the ordinary means of gentlemen, to
right your honor and my own! No, sir! I will answer
for you! You never thought of it! you shrunk from the
thought of meeting Mr. Fantish!—you know he would
shoot you, sir, and you have an especial regard for your
life! You refused to meet these charges, if they existed,
like a gentleman, and you now wish to carry me away,
and go yourself!—you will not take the pistol which a
brave gentleman offers to you!—in a word, you are a
coward, sir,—a craven! I despise you from the bottom
of my heart!”
There are moments when the calmest man becomes
heated—times when the coldest blood boils up—the
lightning.
It was this change which took place in Mr. Incledon's
appearance:—these evidences of emotion were visible
upon his face as he rose to his full height, and looked
down on the woman who was thus guilty of the unpardonable
and degrading offence of offering insult to a
gentleman. All this man's old nature, which had been
the very echo of chivalric sentiment, recoiled before the
corroding flood of insult poured upon him—and with
flashing eyes, heaving bosom, and haughty attitude, he
stood for a moment, grinding his nails into his hands and
shuddering with rage.
The expression of his face awed the young woman, and
in presence of a nature stronger and more largely moulded
than her own, she drew back, and half wished she had
never uttered what excited this terrible emotion.
She looked half fearfully at the man she had insulted,
and saw his countenance pass rapidly from rage to deep
contempt—and then her anger flushed back to her face,
and every nerve was braced to meet the trial—the
rebound.
The rebound never came.
Mr. Incledon's passion was no match for his vast self-control;
and like the waves of a troubled sea after a
storm, his rage and contempt grew gradually less; and
holding down the least evidence of adverse feeling, his
countenance settled into repose.
He tried to speak, but no words issued from his lips; and
standing thus dumb before the young woman, whom he
Mr. Incledon presented an appearance of such
grandeur and nobility, that the eyes of the weak woman
sank again before him, and the sullen words she was
about to utter, died upon her lips.
It was in the middle of this silence, so profound that
the fall of a leaf might have been heard, that Mr. Incledon
again spoke.
His voice was not yet under his command, but it
gathered strength as he proceeded, and grew perfectly
calm at last.
“Silvia,” he said, “the words which you have just
uttered, are such as no lady, even under any circumstances,
should be led to address to a gentleman. I do not say
this angrily, as you may see by looking at my face; and
not as a reply to your own bitter and unpardonable speech.
I say it that you may never in future address such words
to a gentleman—for nothing will more completely ruin
you in every honorable person's estimation, nothing will
be instrumental in causing so much bloodshed as a habit
so terrible as this. Had you spoken thus to me, some
years since, the result would have been unfortunate to some
one of your family, or to myself:—I should have made
you a low bow and taken my departure; but blood would
have flowed to wash out these expressions. Of course it
is irrational, ludicrous, and monstrous, that your brother's
blood should flow for words you have uttered—but I tell
you, Silvia, that nothing arouses in a certain class of men,
the devil of blood, more certainly than just such words as
you have spoken, only a few minutes since, to me! You
one whom you heartily despise. A few words more, however,
before I go—they are proper, even necessary. I
will not refer to your imputations upon my courage—imputations
which were worded with such bitterness, that my
old nervous temper carried me away at first—you saw it;
I will not speak of this, further than to say, that you are
quite correct in thinking that I would not send a challenge,
to fight a duel, to Mr. Fantish. He offered me a pistol
already loaded, and I refused it—would not take my position.
That is the simple fact. The interview was quite
peaceable—few criminations were exchanged—and I have
only to regret that I came away with the certainty that
Mr. Fantish will continue to abuse your name, and possibly—it
may be—even add to his offence from hatred to
myself. I have only to say then, that I shall this evening
do what I am driven to do by my sense of honor, by my
sacred promise, and by my absolute conviction of my simple
duty,—I shall write to Runland, telling Mr. Incledon, my
uncle and your father, that his presence is needed here, on
business of importance. He will come at once, and then
I shall be freed from this responsibility, and it will lie
with him. You start! Why should you? Surely, if I
have been foolishly sensitive in this affair, and Mr. Fantish
is the model of propriety you think him—surely, you
cannot fear to tell your father, Silvia, everything.”
And with perfect calmness, Mr. Incledon, bowed put
on his hat, and went toward the door.
29. CHAPTER XXIX.
DELILAH.
The singular interview between these two persons had
lasted so long—so many various passions had modified
and changed the aspect of the scene, as it passed through
all its agitated steps—that one might very readily have
supposed that the words uttered by Mr. Incledon would
have sealed up any further discussion, ended all contest;
and left silence in possession of the spot, which had been
visited with all these clashing and discordant passions,
raising each its head, and trying to hiss loudest, or strike
deadliest.
Such, indeed, might have been the event, if Mr. Incledon
only had been consulted. But there was another:
the beautiful woman who had been beaten at every turn,
foiled with far sharper weapons, and overwhelmed by a
last blow as sudden as it was conclusive.
A rapid thought, which now occurred to Miss Incledon,
prolonged the interview: and we shall proceed to show
the result of this thought, as well as what it was.
For an instant Miss Incledon remained overwhelmed
before the announcement of Mr. Incledon that he was
going to dispatch that letter;—then all the consequences
of such a proceeding seemed to flash upon her.
She rose to her feet, and uttered a suppressed moan,
as though an arrow had pierced her side.
“Do—not, write!” she said, almost inaudibly.
“I must, Silvia,” was the reply.
“Do not write—to-day, then.”
“Why not? Oh! Silvia!” he said, with melancholy
earnestness, “do not look at me so coldly, as if I were
some enemy arrayed against you! I am not an enemy!
but a thousand times your friend! Do not imagine that
I triumph in this blow which leads you to thus change
your tone from menance to supplication. Oh, no! heaven
knows, Silvia, I would see your face covered with smiles
of joy and happiness, not full of gloom as it is now. I
am a weak man when a woman looks at me; and in spite
of all your terrible attacks, of all the insult you have
addressed to me, I feel toward you far more of pity than
of hostility.”
She looked strangely at him, as though measuring his
strength, and the probability of moving him: but she said
nothing.
He misunderstood her look, and thought it one of despair
and submission; and his noble nature, losing sight
of all the outrages which this woman had been guilty of,
made him pity her, and commiserate the unhappy position
in which her passion had placed her.
“You doubt my sincerity, perhaps,” said Mr. Incledon,
pausing on the threshold of the door, and gazing at her
with noble kindness—“you cannot believe that I have forgiven
you—you think that I have told you of my intention
to despatch that letter with a sentiment of triumph
at the stroke I played—of joy at having my revenge.
Oh, no, Silvia! that is not so. I do not triumph—you
are not an enemy—you are a woman. I would not see
the bottom of my heart, I lament the fatality which
drives me to thus oppose you, but I have my duty to
perform!”
During the utterance of these words, Miss Incledon had
continued to gaze upon her visitor—a thought seeming
slowly and gradually to unfold its mysterious wings in the
depths of her subtle mind. As though dazzled by this
thought; subdued by its very conception, her eyes sank
at last, and the long lashes concealed the tell-tale orbs,
and that expression of a resolution formed, what they
contained.
Mr. Incledon came to the end of his speech, was bowing,
and had nearly turned away, when the young woman
covered her face with her hands, bent down almost to her
knee, and, as if under the impression that her visitor had
departed—burst into a torrent of passionate sobs, which
seemed to be the irrepressible expression of an opposition
broken down and humbled to the dust.
Her dark hair fell in disordered tresses on her cheeks—
her beautiful neck was shaken with sobs as she bent down
to her knee—and taking one hand from her face, she in
vain endeavored to find her handkerchief, which lay at her
feet, but seemed to be concealed from her by her tears.
Mr. Incledon turned;—paused;—advanced a step dubiously,
then paused again; and ended by returning quickly
to the young woman's side, and picking up the handkerchief
she sought.
“Tears, Silvia!” he said—“in tears! what pain you
exaggerate all this. You must not weep!”
And his softened gaze fell upon the weeping woman—a
gaze, mild, and full of pity and kindness.
“Here is your handkerchief which you seem to be seeking,”
he said, placing the lace-ornamented cambric in her
hand; “come, Silvia, dry your tears, and do not pain me
by thus yielding to a groundless fear.”
“Don't mind me—I am weak and foolish—you must
despise—me—but—”
And sobbing more than ever, the young woman bent
still lower, and shook from head to foot.
“Despise you, Silvia!” he said—“despise you—Oh,
no, Silvia! You are greatly deceived.”
“You must!” she sobbed.
“Why should I?”
“I have—been so—weak and—silly and—insulting!
I have uttered such insulting words to you—forgive—me
—oh, forgive me!”
“From my heart,” said Mr. Incledon, with noble simplicity.
“I have tried your patience—so—I have been—”
“Forget it, Silvia! we have all quick tempers in our
family, and it is scarcely strange that you should have felt
some irritation at what you were led to consider interference.”
“Oh, it was not—it was—brotherly kindness!”
Mr. Incledon gazed at the young woman in astonishment;
for he could scarcely comprehend the possibility
of so complete an abandonment of her ground. He knew
sure determination and persistence in any course she had
adopted—another trait of the Incledons. His astonishment,
thus, was for a moment very great; but his pleasure
was still greater: and taking kindly the hand which hung
down at her side, he pressed it in his friendly grasp, and
said:
“You make me happier than I can express, Silvia, by
thus assuring me that you do not really regard my agency
in this unhappy affair as out of place, or prompted by a
spirit of hostility. Oh, let me confess to you now what
I never could have said before, that your suffering is
mine—that I tremble when you tremble—that my affection
for you is deep and sincere, though wholly unlike
what I once experienced for you. You are my cousin—
my blood flows in your veins—you cannot think your unhappiness
a matter of indifference to me!”
There was so much kindness and simplicity in the
voice which uttered these words, that a for a moment Miss
Incledon's sobs ceased, and she quickly drew away her
hand.
“Mr. Fantish cannot feel for you so pure and brotherly
a kindness,” he added: and to his great astonishment the
hand which she had drawn away was placed again in his,
and her sobs recommenced with greater violence than ever.
If this were not the genuine promptings of a better
nature, the reader will not fail to agree with us, that
subtlety so deep and perfect seldom dwells in a woman's
bosom.
“Yes,” he said, “we can now speak frankly and plainly
the subject. But do not weep, Silvia.”
“You are so good!” she said.
Again his astonishment was extreme; but it disappeared
as quickly. Great minds have little room in them
for mistrust; and Mr. Incledon's nature was as unsuspecting,
when thrown off its guard, as that of a child.
“My motives are good, Silva,” he said, “but I fear my
manner of acting is very faulty and ill-advised very often.”
“Oh, no—it is noble—like yourself—I do not deserve
all this goodness—Ralph!”
And having uttered his name thus, in a timid and hesitating
voice, she gradually grew calmer, as though she
had thus accomplished the last act of submission.
It is strange how a trifle such as this affects a man.
She had spoken to him throughout the former portions of
their interview, with a cold “sir,” as frequently as she
could drag this exhibition of ill-humor in; and her whole
manner had been shaped in such a way, as to convey to
him the impression, that his very presence was an offence
against her. Now, however, her broken sobs indicated
weakness and submission—her flattering testimony to his
kindness, showed that she repented of her rudeness—lastly,
her use thus of his Christian name, completed the evidence
of her change of feeling, and made him once more the kind
cousin and companion he had been to her in the past.
Her manner and address conveyed all this, and even
more; and Mr. Incledon was not philosopher enough to
steel himself against the change in her tone.
“We were—happy once. Oh, why cannot we be
are.'
“You are the good, sweet Silvia of the past, now,” said
Mr. Incledon, smiling kindly. “Oh, remain always so.”
“I will try,” she said, “but how—how can you—pardon
me for—not giving up Mr. Fantish!”
And she sobbed again.
“You will forget him, Silvia,” was the reply; “this
is merely a passing fancy. Do not think I have any idea
of renewing my pretensions to your hand—I speak as an
elder brother; and I assure you this unhappy affair will
never cloud your young life—never.”
“Oh—I—I—how can I acknowledge it?”
And she covered her face with her hands, as though
overwhelmed with confusion; and ashamed to meet his
eyes.
“You love him?”
“Yes,” she murmured.
“You deceive yourself, Silvia,” he said, calmly; “you
do not know your feelings. You think that the pleasing
impression Mr. Fantish has produced upon you is genuine
love—but you are mistaken.”
“Oh—can I be?”
“Easily. This man cannot fill the capacity of your
heart—he is different from what your fancy has painted
him. He is shallow, and selfish, and depraved. There
is the simple truth—I know it wounds you and offends
you—but I think it best to speak to you with the plainest
frankness.”
“Oh, no, I am not offended.”
“He would never make you happy.”
“Do you think not?”
“Never.”
Miss Incledon sighed as though she were beginning to
be convinced by her companion's reasoning.
“But I ought to give him a trial—I ought to be more
guarded than I have been in my manner. I ought to act
carefully—ought I not to—Ralph?”
And she raised her beautiful eyes, still moist with
tears, to his face timidly, then lowered them again.
“Act carefully, Silvia? Assuredly you should,” he
said.
“I should see him again.”
“I see no objection to your receiving him before you
go.”
She colored, but suppressed this emotion instantly.
“Ralph,” she said, softly, and turning her face up
toward him with a winning smile: “do you know that
your goodness made me for a moment think that you
would yield to a request I thought of making you?”
“A request, Silvia?” he said, with an admiration of
her beauty, which he could not prevent his eyes from
revealing.
“Yes, Ralph, a simple favor.”
“What is it?”
“You will not be angry?”
“Certainly not, Silvia.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite sure.”
“Whatever it may be?”
“I do not think you could make me angry by requesting
me to do you a `simple favour,”' he said, smiling.
“Don't you?”
And her beautiful eyes dwelt softly on his face.
“Indeed, no, Silvia.”
“I have offended you so much already,” she murmured,
with an air of self-reproach. “I am so weak and passionate,
and bad.”
“No, no, Silvia! you do not make allowance for
quickness and impulse. You must not slander yourself.”
“Ah!” she sighed, gently.
“I will take your part against yourself,” he said,
smiling kindly.
“Then I shall have a very noble knight.”
And again her look stole softly and admiringly to his
face, and she was silent.
“But your request?” he said: and if Miss Incledon's
intention in this eye-manoeuvring was to throw her visitor
off his guard, the fact of his thus returning to the subject
was a proof of her success; “you wished to request
something of me, Silvia.”
“Yes.”
And she sighed.
“I listen.”
“Again, you will not be angry?”
“No, indeed.
“Nor think it strange?”
“Why, how can I tell that? But I suppose not.”
“And you'll—grant it—Ralph?” she said, more softly
than she had yet spoken: indeed, very tenderly—flooding
smile; “you'll grant it—Ralph?”
For a moment it seemed to Mr. Incledon that he had
heard a voice more than human in its wondrous music;
and he listened still to its metallic vibration when she had
done speaking. His admiration was quite plain to her,
and she laid her warm hand upon his own, and pressed
his fingers in a cousinly way, and said again:
“You'll grant my little favor, won't you, Ralph?”
“What is it?” Mr. Incledon said, smiling.
“Say you'll grant it.”
“No, indeed, Silvia, that would not be honest: for I
certainly will not if it is anything dreadful and terrible.”
He smiled again as he spoke, and gazed at the beautiful
face admiringly.
“Well,” she said, concealing her disappointment and
displeasure at the ill-success of all her pleading; “well,
Ralph, it is not so terrible or dreadful—and I'm sure you
will not think it wrong in me to ask you—not to—write
that letter!”
There it was at last: and if Mr. Incledon had taken
the trouble to cast his memory back over the last ten
minutes, he would have been struck with wonder by the
admirable adroitness with which the request was gently
edged out, so to speak, from the lady's lips.
“Not write that letter, Silvia!” he said; “but really
I must.”
“Oh, no, you will not, I am sure.”
“Indeed, I will.”
“You do not care anything for me!”
And the beautiful face turned away with an expression
of ill-humor and displeasure which was far from being
affected.
Mr. Incledon looked at her in silence for some time, and
then sighing, said:
“It seems our fate, Silvia, always to have opposing
wishes and opinions. You ask me not to write this letter—but
think what it is. It is very simple. You are
placed under my charge by your father—you are persecuted
by Mr. Fantish—you think Mr. Fantish a better
man than I consider him; and there is, upon the point
of his conduct toward you, the most serious difference of
opinion between you and myself. In this state of things
I prefer yielding up a charge which places me in a position
hostile to the wishes of a lady, who is my cousin—I
wish to say to your father, and my uncle, `here, sir, is
what you delivered to me—my responsibility—take it
back!'—I wish, in a word, Silvia, to end what you even
now consider a very singular sort of guardianship, and go
back to my studies. I am too young to judge of the
species of match suitable for you—I have not scrupled to
declare that Mr. Fantish is the last man I would see
approach you, spite of the fact that you prefer him to all
others: and so you have the reasons, fully expressed, why
I must, as an act of justice to myself, write to your father,
and demand his presence.”
The young lady listened in silence to these calmly-uttered
words, and, as the speaker concluded, gazed keenly
at his countenance to see if there was any hope of shaking
amounting almost to anger, and she turned away.
Then came to her eyes again that strange expression,
which seemed to denote the conception of some hazardous
scheme; and slowly her face grew calm and smiling again,
and her eyes soft.
“Well, Ralph, she said, “I cannot dispute the propriety
of your resolution, and I know you will always act
nobly. I always knew that.”
“Did you?”
“Yes—you smile!—but do not think too harshly of
my bad, rude words.”
“Do not speak again of them, Silvia. I have forgotten
them.”
“You are so kind!—and this gives me courage to ask
of you, as a favor, Ralph, that—but you will refuse me.
You are in the mood for refusing everything.”
“Indeed, no, Silvia!”
“Not even me?”
“You less than any one, almost—for you deserve to
have this granted, as your other was denied.”
“Then, Ralph, I wished to ask,” she said, with her
softest and most fascinating smile, and in the gentlest
voice, “I wished to ask if you would please delay writing
for three days—until I have an interview with Mr. Fantish,
to determine whether I should ever see him again.
I would not like, you know, to think every moment that
my father would walk in, and—and surprise me. Does
that seem ill-advised to you?—I hope it does not—
Ralph.”
He was silent for a moment, and in that time turned
the young woman's request over, viewing it in every
light—why, he could scarcely have explained.
“I see not the least objection, Silvia, to granting your
request,” he said, “and I will not write until Thursday
morning.”
“Thank you, Ralph—thank you—I am eternally obliged
to you.”
“Are you?”
“Yes—how can I thank you?”
“I do not know; I hope in no possible way, however,
for I have some business to attend to, and have been here
all the morning. Yes, Silvia, I willingly accede to your
request—and on Thursday morning I will see you again.
The shorter your interview with Mr. Fantish the better, I
think. For heaven's sake forget him, Silvia—as you love
your parents, home, your name, and all that is pure and
honorable; he is not your peer—and now, good bye.”
She pressed his hand warmly—looked at him with a
smile of triumph, which she could not conceal, and as he
disappeared, closing the door, shook her hand at him, and
rubbing in disgust the spot upon it which his own had
touched, muttered triumphantly:
“Fool! shallow fool!—tricked after all your boasting,
by a woman you dared to offend!”
These were the events of a morning.
30. CHAPTER XXX.
THE NIGHT PRECEDING THURSDAY MORNING: THREE
SCENES OF THE COMEDY.
In Mr. Fantish's elegant domicil and in that portion
of it which has the honor of frequently beholding Mr. Fantish
in a state of repose, or in his dressing gown, or
shaving—namely in that gentleman's bed-chamber, preparations
seem to be going on for something like a journey.
Two gilt gas burners fixed to the wall on each side of
the Psyche-mirror in whose polished surface Mr. Fantish
is accustomed to survey his manifold graces and elegances,
cast their steady glare on the rich chamber, with its
luminous appointments—on the closed shutters through
which shines the white light of the cold snow—and on the
owner of the mansion, clad in his gorgeous dressing gown,
and busy stuffing clothes into a portmanteau.
On the table lies an open volume of the French school
of literature—by it flutters an open note of satin paper
elegantly written in a woman's hand—and on the hearth a
refractory cigar, which Mr. Fantish has abandoned in disgust,
sends up its faint blue acrid smoke.
Mr. Fantish has nearly filled his portmanteau with all
the conveniences of a traveller, when a knock is heard at
the street door, the always wakeful servant gently opens
it; and soon a step is heard upon the stairs, and the door
of the chamber opens, giving entrance to the valiant
Captain Tarnish.
Captain Tarnish is not as elegantly made up for public
waistcoat gapes and shows his linen somewhat soiled—his
hair is all disordered, as if angry fingers have been plunged
into it. One thing about the captain is unchanged, however,
and is more conspicuous than ever—his boastful
swagger and supercilious look. As he enters with his
half-smoked cigar between his lips, with his red cheeks
which indicate recent and deep potations, and his eyes
surrounded with dull circles, and quite bloodshot, he is
the same swaggering, disagreeable bully, as when standing
finely dressed and `set up' with his morning draught of
brandy, at the shooting gallery.
The worthies salute each other with that nod which
passes between men who understand each other.
Then the following observations are exchanged.
Fantish, stuffing a pair of velvet slippers into a remaining
crevice of his portmanteau. Well, Tarnish, what's
stirring besides your great carcass?
Captain Tarnish. Nothing but the cards.
Fantish. The cards?
Captain Tarnish. Yes, sir, the deuced cards—they're
stirring.
Fantish, lighting a fresh cigar. Bad luck?
Captain Tarnish. Ruinous!
Fantish, with a sneering laugh. You won't listen to
me, and give them up. I tell you, cards will ruin you—
you haven't got the nerve—you drink too freely also Mon
Capitaine. You cannot resist the brandy bottle, and I
tell you again, what I have told you a thousand times
profession.
Captain Tarnish, sullenly. Well, that is true: but
how the devil can a man resist a glass of brandy, when he's
going his whole pile upon a card?
Fantish, lounging in a rocking chair and wrapping
his silk gown about him. Well, it is hard. But take my
advice, captain, and abandon one or the other. Playing
faro any to-night?
Captain Tarnish, with an imprecation. Yes! all the
evening.
Fantish, indifferently. Did they clean you out?
Captain Tarnish. Exactly.
Mr. Fantish burst into a fit of laughter, and leans back
in his chair to reap the full benefits of his entertainment.
Meanwhile Captain Tarnish, with a very bad grace,
mutters that it is nothing, and helps himself to another
cigar from the mantel-piece. His eye then wanders to a
side table, where a bottle stands, and going to it, he pours
out nearly a tumbler full of brandy and empties it, without
water, at a single draught.
Fantish. How is that? Good, captain? I ask you,
because you're a connoisseur in drinks. You know you
have tried the liquors of all nations—like the hero of Bon
Gaultier. Stay, here is the volume—listen. Fantish
opens the book and reads.
flowed,
I have ever reeled the foremost, foremost to the beaker strode;
Deep in shady cider cellars I have dreamed o'er heavy wet,
By the fountains of Damascus I have quaffed the rich Sherbet.
On Johannis' sunny mountains, frequent hiccuped o'er my hock:
I have bathed in butts of Xeres, deeper than did e'er Monsoon.
Sangareed with bearded Tartars in the Mountains of the Moon.
In beer-swilling Copenhagen I have drank your Danesman blind;
I have kept my feet in Jena, when each bursch to earth declined.
Glass for glass in fierce Jamaica, I have shared the planters rum;
Drank with Highland dhuinie-wassels, till each gibbering Gael grew
dumb.
But a stouter, bolder drinker—one who loved his liquor more,
Never yet did I encounter than our friend upon the floor.”
“A clever fellow, Bon Gaultier—is he not?”
Captain Tarnish. Yes, I knew him in London—
lived in Grub street, and gets a penny a line.
Fantish. Really?
Captain Tarnish. Yes, sir: and has often drank
with me.
Fantish. You ought to have told him to put in the
Italian and Louisianian wines.
Captain Tarnish. What sort?
Fantish, with a sneer. Those which you drank with
your friends Labordère and Señor Bocca.
Captain Tarnish, sullenly. Well, I suppose you
don't deny that they are real people.
Fantish. Not in the least—nor your indomitable
bravery, Captain. You are a Cæsar, an Antony, a Hercules;
you have seen the whole world, and that accounts
for the perfection in drinking, which is, after all, the finest
trait in your character.
Captain Tarnish doubts whether this remark should be
received with dignity, hauteur, or anger. In consideration,
however, of the fact, that neither of these attitudes
are likely to have any effect upon one so well acquainted
and says, smoking through his nose:
“Well, let us get away from drinking and books. I
hate books—”
Fantish, entertained by the oaths expressed by the above
lines and sneering. I suppose you do. Well, talk of
what pleases you.
Captain Tarnish, looking at the portmanteau. You
are going on a journey?
Fantish. Precisely, Captain.
Captain Tarnish. Where?
Fantish. Parts unknown. I am taking a leap in the
dark. There is only one objection to the move—I am
encumbered with too much baggage.
Captain Tarnish, glancing at the portmanteau again.
Too much! It's little enough.
Fantish, sneering. That is the way you take everything,
Captain—literally. You are not a logician, or you
would be acquainted with the use made of figures. By
too much baggage, I mean a woman. I am encumbered
with a woman.
Captain Tarnish. Running away with you.
Fantish. Eloping—exactly. These little affairs generally
cost the gentleman a good deal of trouble, but in
the present instance all worry and annoyance is taken off
my hands. That letter there would prove this—but
honor bright, you know, Captain—I am a man of honor!
Captain Tarnish, indifferently. Of course. And so
you go in the morning.
Fantish. In the morning early, as the ballad says.
Captain Tarnish. When do you return?
Fantish. Really can't say.
Captain Tarnish. You take things coolly. How will
you leave everything? There seems to me to be a number
of valuable articles in this room. The frame of that
picture there, over which a curtain is drawn, is itself
worth a cool hundred or two.
Fantish, with a sudden flush. No matter; I will
arrange it.
Captain Tarnish, rising, and going toward the picture.
Strange, that as many times as I have been in this room,
I never laid my eyes upon that picture, or drew back the
curtain. Is it a French affair? Let's see it.
Fantish, rising quickly, and seizing the arm stretched
out to raise the curtain. You shall not, sir!—you touch
it at your peril!
Captain Tarnish, stupefied with astonishment. What
the devil! Are you going to eat a man because he
wants to see your pictures!
Fantish, pale, and speaking in a tone scarcely audible.
I repeat, sir, that you do not raise the curtain of that picture—that
is enough, sir!
Captain Tarnish, sitting down, and smoking indifferently.
Well, that's all correct. If you won't have it
seen, you won't, I suppose—though, curse me, if I know
what it can mean.
Fantish, pale, but growing calm, and returning slowly
to his seat. It is a portrait of my mother; no one ever
enter this room.
Captain Tarnish. You're a devil of a fellow, Fantish.
I know there's something bold about this journey—that
suits me. Come, let me into your confidence, and I may
assist you.
Fantish, regaining his sneering manner. I don't want
assistance; but if you choose, you may come to-morrow
morning to—but stay, here is a copy of my note: I
spoiled it, and wrote another. Wait! why shouldn't you
read this, first, in which the damsel asks me to “take
possession of her fate,” and disappoint a noble and
chivalric guardian who told her she was naughty for preferring
me to him. There is the letter, my dear fellow,
and you may read it, and mine, too, and come to-morrow
morning, and see how it goes.
Servant, entering silently. The driver's come, sir, to
get orders.
Fantish. Tell him to come in: and lock up everywhere.
The servant goes out; Captain Tarnish reads the note;
and Mr. Fantish, unconscious of his having carried human
baseness to the last perfection, smokes, and sneers in
silence.
So the scene ends
31. CHAPTER XXXI.
SCENE THE SECOND.
Seated upon the sofa, in her chamber, Miss Incledon,
while Captain Tarnish reads her note, leans her fine head
upon her hand, and ponders.
Her figure is enveloped in a loose robe, which conceals
a complete travelling dress, and looking intently into the
fire, her gracefully curved eyebrows meet together in the
middle, and her gaze is almost wild in its intense excitement.
Peeping from the fringed edge of the counterpane behind
her, is visible, the corner of a small travelling trunk,
of yellow leather, such as are carried in the hand by both
handles, fixed upon the side.
Midnight has passed, and her candle burns low, spattering
the silver candlestick with the hard, white spermaceti—which
is, nevertheless, unheeded, as it patters, drop
after drop, in the deep silence of the night.
The young woman's head bends lower, and her large,
white arm, upon which a golden bracelet is clasped, seems
scarcely able to support the weight imposed upon it.
The red firelight streams upon the woman's figure, and
every detail of her appearance is made visible—almost
painfully so.
She remains silent for a long time, then, with a cold
smile, her brows relax; and she raises her proud eyes, in
which the expression of haughty triumph is unmistakeable.
“He thought to force me to bend to him!” she murmurs,
clenching her hand, “he thought that I would suffer
him to watch and spy, and sneak, and find out everything
about me, and then make me obey him as his slave!
Fool! he did not know, with all his boasted knowledge
of life and books, that one wronged woman is a match for
a hundred men! My guardian, forsooth! a pretty
guardian, that wished to make love to his ward, and go
back home, and say, `I have performed my part so well,
that I have got my ward an excellent husband! Oh, yes!
excellent! He would have made me an excellent husband,
no doubt! `My dear, have you seen the theological
work I have been reading?'—`My love, don't you think
it would be best to go to fewer parties, and not waltz so
much?'—`Sil—vi—a! I am afraid you are sadly given to
the vanities of life—you think too much of this world!'
How I hate him!”
And resuming with these words her bitter and scornful
tone, which she had dropped to assume, with the case of
a great actress, Mr. Incledon's mild manner, she clenched
her beautiful hand more tightly and frowned again.
“So he thought to marry me, did he!” she continued,
“he thought to wheedle, and cajole, and trick me into
accepting him! And when I chose to exercise my right
of choosing freely, he must shake his head forsooth! and
say I am running into danger! How I despise him!”
And she tosses her head and curls her lip with such
derision, that her beautiful countenance grows painfully
repulsive. As she speaks, a door opens on the passage
her apartment.
Miss Incledon starts from her seat—springs to the
mantel-piece, and extinguishes the light; and then falls
back upon the sofa, covering her travelling dress with the
robe.
She has scarcely finished these preparations when the
door opens, and an elderly lady enters, smiling. She
wears a loose, evening robe, in which she has been attending
to her household matters, and carries on her arm a
basket of keys. This is Mrs. Incledon, the young woman's
aunt, and she says in a kind voice:
“What, Silvia? are you awake yet? You 'll spoil
your roses, my daughter.”
Silvia, repressing a tumultuous throbbing at her heart
with one hand, while she rubs her eyes with the other. Yes,
Aunt Fanny—I am afraid I will—but really that novel
there is so attractive that it kept me up until now—and I
have just blown out my candle.
Aunt Fanny, pressing down a lump of coal upon the
fire for safety. What novel, Silvia? Ah! that is a great
waste of time, and calculated to injure many persons.
What is it?
Silvia. The “Mysteries of Paris.”
Aunt Fanny, shaking her head. I have heard that
these French works are not what they should be.
Silvia. They are so horrible, Aunt Fanny; but have
you been down stairs again, since you came up.
Aunt Fanny. Yes; I had a jar of pickles to see to
which I forgot, and it has kept me busy for an hour.
Silvia. I hope you will have a good night's rest;—I
do always—I have everything so comfortable.
Aunt Fanny, looking around with pride. Yes, I
arranged everything myself. But what is that yonder—
your trunk?
Silvia, hastily. Oh, yes!—I ought to have put it in
the closet with my larger one.
Aunt Fanny, going to the trunk and pulling it out.
These are very convenient, are they not, for—why, it is
packed!
Silvia, with her hand upon her heart. Some things I
thought I should n't have any use for until I set out to
return.
Aunt Fanny. Ah! you young women! You have a
thousand things which were not allowed us when we were
young. Let me see what you have stuffed in there.
Where is the key?
Silvia, in a voice scarcely audible. The key?
Aunt Fanny. Yes, I want to see the arrangements
of the trunk inside—I may want one.
Silvia. I don't think—I hardly know—it 's somewhere—to-morrow
I will—
Aunt Fanny. Never mind. Do not trouble yourself.
Silvia, regaining her voice. Oh, it 's no trouble, aunt;
you may have that trunk, as you say you like it I really
don't want it.
Aunt Fanny. Don't you? Well, I think I will borrow
it for my visit to sister Jane, in two or three days. I
will take it now, and you shall come and unpack it.
Silvia, darting towards the trunk. No! don't take it!
Aunt Fanny, in astonishment. You frighten me,
child. Why, who would have thought?—well, well! this
is a strange generation.
Silvia, smiling on her as she rises and is going. You
mus'nt mind my folly, Aunt Fanny.
Aunt Fanny. Oh, it 's nothing, daughter. Come, go
to bed—why, what is that you have on? Your pearl-colored
travelling dress!
Silvia, nearly fainting, but gathering courage immediately.
Yes, ma'am, I thought I 'd see how it looked,
and put it on this evening—and I haven't taken it off yet.
Aunt Fanny. How odd you are!
Silvia, turning pale and murmuring inaudibly. How
base, and false, and miserable I am!
Aunt Fanny. What did you say, my daughter?
Silvia, covering her face. Nothing, Aunt Fanny. Do
you love me, Aunt—oh, can you love me?”
Aunt Fanny, astounded at this outburst. Certainly, I
do, child! What on earth can you mean?
Silvia, suppressing a rising sob. I mean, Aunt, that I
am not strong like you—and that some day I may commit
something which would not seem right to you. You
would not think hardly of me, if I did—at least you
would forgive me; would'nt you, Aunt?
Aunt Fanny, in deepest astonishment. Forgiveness is
a bounden duty, Silvia. If one be overtaken in a fault,
restore such an one in the spirit of meekness. I read that
in my Bible, and I try to make the Bible my rule of conduct.
Silvia, growing calmer. Well, Aunt Fanny, when you
love to every one, and say that I would have written, only
I am in such a whirl.
Aunt Fanny, completely stupefied by the confusion and
want of connection in Silvia's discourse. Certainly, I will,
daughter. But Ralph writes to Runland, and they know
all about you and your doings.
Silvia, with wide eyes—they know?
Aunt Fanny.—Why, assuredly, it is Ralph's place
when he writes, to tell them especially of you—that you
are well and happy and enjoying yourself. What more
natural?
Silvia, in a murmur. Yes—very natural.
Aunt Fanny, counting her keys. Ralph is very fond of
you.
Silvia. Is he?
Aunt Fanny, looking for the key of the tea caddie.
Yes, he ought to be proud of his guardianship, over such
a brilliant young lady, as Miss Silvia. You ought to follow
Ralph's suggestions in everything, daughter; he is one
of the most intelligent and high-minded young men I ever
met in all my life—and if you wished to do one thing, and
he wished another, it would be better for you follow his
suggestions than your own.
Silvia, with a cloud upon her face. I do not think so!
That is, I mean, there may be things—but I am keeping
you up, Aunt.
Aunnt Fanny, pouncing upon the key and easy in her
mind again. Yes, so you are: good night
Silvia. Good night, ma'am.
Aunt Fanny, closing the doors and disappearing. Pleasant
dreams!
Silvia, rising and looking after her with a frown. If
that man's name had not been uttered, I might have
yielded to this silly regret at leaving a house where I have
been treated kindly. But that name has steeled me—I
am resolute again. He thought to choose my husband,
did he! Fool! I foiled him with his own sickening
mildness. Yes, I am once more determined; and not all
the `intelligent and high-minded' Mr. Incledons in the
world shall drive me from my purpose One!—so late; I
will soon hear the signal!
And Miss Incledon resumes her seat, and gazes again
into the fire, with her brows joined together into the “bar
of Michael Angelo.”
The stroke of one! dies away, and all is silent.
32. CHAPTER XXXII.
SCENE THIRD AND LAST.
Mr. Incledon—stirring the fire, and pointing to a
cigar, which Mr. Sansoucy refuses with a shake of his head.
But you are wrong, Ernest. The human intellect has
something of the Divine in its grandest manifestations—
but its powers are circumscribed. What you allege would
make a man more than human.
Mr. Sansoucy, with an argumentative movement of his
hand. Not at all. It is only an act which long training has
perfected the student in. Look at Kean. Did you ever
see him?
Incledon. No.
Sansoucy. I did once, in London, just when he retired.
If you had seen him, you would not dispute, what I say.
Yes, Ralph! There are men born with such a ductility
of mind and feature, that they end by believing themselves
really the characters they act. You should have seen
Edmund Kean in Richard. A fiery little devil—so to
speak—blustering his words out, scowling, and with every
muscle swollen with passion: no, he thought himself really
Richard—and on the night I saw him, he was as near
killing the unfortunate Richmond, whose rôle, you know,
is to lay the proud usurper low, as a man can come without
actually running his adversary through.
Incledon And that proves—?
Sansoucy. Simply one thing. That certain natures
are gifted with this extraordinery genius, which enables
them to throw themselves into a part, and forget their own
identity. This end once reached, they ride upon the whirlwind
of art and direct it. It is more than the keenest eye
can see—the fact that all they utter has been gotten by
heart—that every gesture is the result of previous arrangement—that
they are only acting. Think of the stories of
Garrick, Mrs. Siddons, Miss O'Neil, and Kemble.—
Incledon, smiling. You knock me down with names.
Sansoucy. They are high authority, and present
powerful illustrations.
Incledon. Well, possibly.
Sansoucy, gratified at having triumphed. Look even at
Macready. Did you see him in Macbeth? You have
as my friends the actors call it in their jargon? In that
scene I defy any one to see the actor's terror-stricken
features, his brow bathed in sweat, his hands clutching at
the air, without looking for the dagger, even as he looks.
Incledon. Very well.
Sansoucy. Well, what does that prove Mr. Logician?
Simply this, that the actor feels that he is not Mr. Macready,
but the Thane of Caudor—and as a consequence
of that belief, and the further conviction that he is going
to murder the sleeping king—actually feels that there is
an air-drawn dagger, and expresses that feeling in his eyes,
and makes you look for what he evidently sees—Q. E. D.
You are wrong and I am right.
Incledon, smiling at his friend's good humored air of
triumph. Well, you may be, but still I believe that such
ductility of imagination is given to but one man in a
million—scarcely ever to a woman.
Sansoucy, quickly. Oftener to women than to men.
Incledon. I don't believe it.
Sansoucy. That's because you are as obstinate as a
block of granite. Women, Ralph, have this impressibility
of temperament a thousand fold more fully than men.
Where one man is a great actor, a hundred women might
be great actresses. And do not think that this is a cynical
speech on my part. Not at all. I yield to no man in
chivalrie feeling toward woman, and I bow before a little
girl even, for she is purer and more innocent than I am.
But the fact remains. Believe me, Ralph, there are
greater actresses in private life than on the stage.
Incledon. What a cynic!
Sansoucy. Just as I expected. A man cannot look at
woman, as they are, and say, `This is good—that bad,'
without having some such speech made to him. You are
to think them angels, on penalty of being branded as a
woman hater! Very well! that shan't affect me in the least.
I will go on as I always have gone on, honoring women for
a thousand qualities far nobler than the same in men—
endurance, disinterestedness, tenderness, and devotion—I
shall go on attributing all this to women, my dear Ralph;
but I will not take back what I have said, that half the
women a man meets have smiles and tears, and frowns
and tenderness as much at their command, as the keys of
the pianos which their fingers play on without effort!
Incledon, thinking of Silvia and frowning. Very well—
that's just what I expected, Ernest. Take care you never
find out the truth of what I say. There's Aurelia. Tell
me is she an actress?
Sansoucy, sighing. Really I haven't made up my mind;
but who knows? Ah, my dear Ralph! the fact is that
my philosophy is a very dangerous one, and has too fine
an edge to apply practically—like a razor used to cut
open the leaves of a book, it is too keen, and runs out of
its track—and slash! there's your fine copy, with its steel
engravings sliced in two! But let us dismiss the subject,
or I will recant all I have said!
Incledon. Willingly.
Sansoucy, rising. Well, I am going. No, I can't
stay. I have a thousand things to do in the morning,
besides a visit to my little friend, Ellie, to pay. Goodnight:
twelve until dinner on my hands. You will come?
Incledon. Willingly, again.
Sansoucy, disappearing wrapped to the eyes in his
overcoat. Good-night.
Incledon, gazing after him. A mind rioting in discussion!—but
all editors have just such characters. I
suppose it becomes habit with them—and they take pride
in their skill at dialectics. He is half right about actors
and their capabilities, no doubt—but doubt a young girl
like Silvia! Impossible: my faith in woman, which I
cling to as my treasure and blessing, only second to my
faith in a higher than all earthly things, would leave me
—I should doubt the earth I tread on—I should sicken
at the thought of living in a world so poor and mean!
Grant, O my God, as I raise my eyes solemnly to thee
and yield my heart to thee as a little child—naked, and
poor, and humble, but with faith and trust—grant, O my
God and Father, that I may not lose my treasure, even
my faith in human nature—in the beings whom I am
thrown with—whom I love—and loving cannot look
upon as wholly base, and fallen and untouched with the
sublime light of heaven!”
33. CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE ELOPEMENT.
We have given at length all the details of the interviews
between the three personages who played the chief
part in this contest of passion and principle; and this was
necessary, in order to convey a clear impression of the
relative positions occupied by each.
We shall now be able to speak more briefly of the
events which followed the scenes we have described.
Morning came slowly and gloomily: and where a red
streak in the East would, on a clear day, have gone
before the dawn, a faint, dubious half-mist tint scarcely
made any impression on the darkness.
It was one of those mornings when the world seems to
be buried inextricably in a sea of fog; when the eye
pierces scarcely six feet from the spot on which a man
stands:—and when the idea of anything like sunlight
ever again, appears wholly ridiculous.
In a word, the city was enveloped in one of the heaviest
fogs which had ever descended upon it; and the early
wayfarers resembled spectres as they glided onward.
Among these spectres were two who made a low signal
before a house, in an upper chamber of which a faint
sheen of fire light was visible, flickering on the curtains,
These figures were those of men, wrapped in cloaks,
and in spite of the deserted state of the streets, they drew
down over their brows their hats with wide rims, and
seemed to await the answer of their signal with impatience.
It soon came. The window of the room in which the
faint light flickered, was cautiously raised, and a woman's
head was thrust out into the biting air.
The low whistle was repeated, and the window immediately
descended.
In five minutes the door of the house opened noiselessly,
and the woman, carrying her small trunk with
difficulty, issued forth, and hastened toward the men.
“Who is that?” she whispered, looking at one of the
men, as she placed her hand in that of the other.
“A friend, Silvia—come, we are too late.”
And taking the trunk in his hand, he gave it to his
companion, and followed with the lady.
In five minutes they reached a carriage standing at the
corner of the street, and all got into it.
“Whip your horses, and be out of town in fifteen
minutes, and I promise you double pay!” said Mr. Fantish
to the driver.
“Yes, sir!”
And mounting to his seat the driver flourished his
whip, and laid the lash at one stroke over the backs of
both horses.
They jumped in the traces half-reared, and starting
forward over the slippery street, went onward at a pace
hazardous in the extreme.
Three squares from the point at which they had
stopped, Mr. Fantish found the carriage going slower.
“What is the matter?” he said.
“The matter, sir?”
“Yes! you are crawling.”
“We're goin' down hill here, sir, and the ground's
covered with ice.”
“Ice!”
“Like a pond, sir.”
“No matter! take the chances! There is sunrise
coming.”
“They'll slip here, sir!”
“Take the chances!—double pay at any rate!”
“Very good, sir!”
And the driver struck his horses with his whip, and
drove them into a gallop.
It was a suicidal act. No sooner had they entered
fairly upon the descent, than striking with their smooth-shod
hoofs the slippery surface, they both fell, almost at
the same moment, snapping, in their descent, the pole of
the carriage.
It fell nearly over on its side, and bursting open the
door, Mr. Fantish dragged out Miss Silvia, and—found
himself standing within two feet of Mr. Incledon.
Mr. Incledon, by one of those providences which seem,
at times, to interpose themselves in the way of the most
deeply-laid schemes, had reached the spot where the
carriage stopped, just when the fugitives reached it.
Accustomed in the country to rise at daylight, make his
own fire, and prosecute his studies or walk out, he had
brought this habit with him to the city—and had thus
been thrown in contact with the fugitives, scarcely a hundred
yards from his own door, from which he had just
issued.
For a moment the adversaries stood facing each other
or resist.
Mr. Incledon was the first to recover his presence of
mind. He understood all at a glance; and advancing
straight upon Mr. Fantish, he caught him by the throat,
and exerting his great strength, threw him backward
toward the half-overturned carriage.
The attack was so sudden that Mr. Fantish was wholly
unable to resist it; and the blood rushed to his eyes so
powerfully under Mr. Incledon's clutch, that he nearly fell
back as with vertigo.
Mr. Incledon turned just in time to avoid a blow from
Captain Tarnish's bowie-knife—a weapon which that
gentleman never went unprovided with.
This was the position of affairs—the two men were just
about to throw themselves upon their single opponent,
when, in spite of their rage, they paused and drew back.
Coming round the nearest corner, a party of the nightwatch,
returning to their homes after service, were seen;
and the fact of their appearance had a sudden and powerful
effect upon Captain Tarnish.
His knife disappeared—he assumed an innocent and
highly respectable air; and raised his finger silently to
Mr. Fantish.
“Not now,” he whispered.
“Why not now?” gasped Mr. Fantish, pale with rage.
“A prosecution!”
And Captain Tarnish's very blood seemed to curdle at
the word.
“Well, very well—you are right,” was the reply, in a
moment we shall be surrounded.”
“It 's broad day.”
“Yes.”
And turning to Mr. Incledon, Mr. Fantish went up to
that gentleman, and, bending to his ear, hissed rather than
said, with his pale lips:
“You shall hear from me, sir! We have not done with
each other! I will kill you like a dog, sir, as surely as I
live!”
Having made this personal communication, Mr. Fantish
stood for a moment gasping with that rage he dared not
give way to, threw a last glance upon Miss Incledon, and
uttering a deep curse, turned to depart.
“My pay!” cried the driver, in despair.
“There, rascal!”
And he threw a gold piece of large value to him.
“Thankee, sir—that 'll mend all.”
But Mr. Fantish had disappeared in the fog.
Mr. Incledon was left alone with Silvia, who stood
haughtily upon the pavement, from which she had not
moved. As to the driver, he paid no attention to him,
and the horses and broken carriage soon disappeared.
Mr. Incledon looked for a moment at the young woman
with a countenance as pale as death—trembled visibly—
and tried vainly to utter a word.
“You need say nothing, sir!” she said, in a tone of the
coldest self-possession. “Your voice is not so agreeable
to me, sir, that I wish to hear it at the present moment!
Coward that you are, sir, to thus persecute a woman!”
He looked at her still with the same deep emotion—
uttered a cruel groan, which even his great self-control
could not repress—and then advancing to her, said:
“Come back! Oh, come back, Silvia!—poor child!
poor, erring and unhappy child! Come home with me!”
And, covering his face, he was silent.
She slowly went with him—and thus they regained the
house. He had promised not to speak of what had
occurred—she had promised to return home with him on
the following morning.
34. CHAPTER XXXIV.
HOW A WOMAN WAS TREATED BY A MAN.
Going back to his room, Mr. Incledon sat down, and
leaned his head upon his hand, and groaned.
Then what his friend had said was true! Then after
all, human nature—woman's nature—was essentially corrupt:
unworthy of all trust, and in its fairest showiness,
false and miserable!
All his beautiful dreams of human truth and purity
were chimeras—he had placed his faith in what was rotten
and crumbling—suspicion, hatred and contempt, must
henceforth fill his bosom, however it might yearn to feel
toward those around him, love and confidence.
The dreadful effect produced upon this man's heart, by
the cruel blow of the woman who had so basely deceived
the bitter moan which issued from his lips.
“Falsehood!” he murmured, “terrible falsehood! Can
it be? Falsehood in lip and eye, falsehood in voice and
manner, falsehood in smile and sigh, and word and
deed!—nothing but one gigantic falsehood!—which has
darkened everything before me, made me sour and bitter
and incredulous of all I see and hear, and meet—the very
air seems tainted with it!—pah! it sickens me!”
And shuddering, he crouched lower, and was silent.
In the depth of his soul there then commenced one of
those struggles, only known to men who possess powerful
impulses, vast strength of organization, and extreme sensibility.
For a time he uttered no sound, but remained
thus pale and overwhelmed with the thoughts which battled
in his bosom for the mastery.
He remained silent thus for nearly an hour, his face
still covered, his head bent down.
Then his head rose, and two tears moistened his fiery
eyes—tears that would not have bent a violet, but falling
on this woman's shoulders, should have weighed upon her
heavier than the rocks hurled on the Titans, crushing her
with agony, repentance, and remorse.
The struggle, as far as it referred to her, was ended.
“Poor child!” he murmured, in a tone of infinite pity,
“poor child, misled by passion, wrath, and evil!—I will
not judge her, though her act wrecks my faith and trust,
and confidence in woman, the purest as I thought, and
now, proved full of falsehood! Oh, Silvia! Silvia! the
woman who thus makes an honest gentleman turn with
But it is not for me to judge—my simple
duty is before me, and that I will do.”
And rising, he passed his hand across his hrow, and
leaning his elbow on the mantel-piece, murmured:
“O! my God grant pardon to this woman: I have
pardoned her!”
A moment's silence, a moment's prayer, sufficed to
make him calm again:—and summoning his servant, he
directed him to send any one who came to see him to Mr.
Sansoucy's office, whither he was going.
This caution referred simply to an expected call from a
gentleman on some ordinary and unimportant business:—
but it was instrumental, in no slight degree, in bringing
on the events which followed, as the reader will perceive.
Half an hour after Mr. Incledon's departure, Captain
Tarnish presented himself at the door, and asked the
servant for his master.
Mr. Incledon had gone out, the servant informed him,
and had left word that he might be found at Mr. Sansoucy's
office.
Captain Tarnish, who was clad in the most superb suit,
and whose mustaches—assisted by Macassar—curled ferociously
toward his eyes, received this intimation with a
scowl, and for an instant hesitated, looking at a note he
held daintily in his purple kid-covered fingers.
“Your master is a sneak, you rascal!” said the valiant
gentleman at last, conceiving this a happy expedient for
discharging all his pent-up dissatisfaction. Yes, a sneak!
and you may tell him so! I'd tell him so, if he was here—
afraid! Try it again, and I'll cane you!”.
This address was so terrible that the negro's eyes, which
really had been full of the expression attributed to them
by Captain Tarnish, sank before him, and the worthy
triumphed.
He inserted the note into the breast-pocket of his surtout—scowled
generally at the apartment, and so took his
departure—not without hesitating, however, whether it
would be advisable to call at Mr. Sansoucy's room with
hostile views.
Recollecting speedily the fact, however, that Mr. Fantish
would probably “lend” him a good round sum for his
assistance; and that there was nothing absolutely calculated
to endanger his person in the visit, Captain Tarnish
assumed his most noble swagger, and with haughty mien
strode down the street toward the residence of Mr.
Sansoucy.
35. CHAPTER XXXV.
HOW CAPTAIN TARNISH CAME TO AND WENT FROM
MR. SANSOUCY'S OFFICE.
Sansoucy was just finishing his morning task when his
friend entered; and without raising his eyes, said, smiling:
“Good morning, Ralph—I knew your step—sit down
Another paragraph and I am done.”
Mr. Incledon sat down; and for some moments the
swift pen of the journalist glided over the yellow slip before
him, making only that slight scratching which accompanies
the best goose quill.
“There!” he cried, suddenly, “I'm done! The cause
of freedom has advanced a mighty league by that production!—as
my brother editor and compeer Jefferson Brick
would say. How singular, Ralph,” he added, holding out
his hand, which was cordially pressed, “how singular that
Mr. Dickens should believe there is no intelligence or
honesty or fairness in American editors! I think the
journalists of this Republic are much before even the
English, in the greatest and truest elements of their profession:
and I think this is plainly the result of what the
English scoff at and despise as an enormity—our free
atmosphere and youth and vigor as a nation! Old England
scowls at Young America!—but, Ralph, your brow is
clouded—here I am thrusting politics for ever on you,
and—you are troubled about something!”
And Sansoucy gazed at his friend more attentively.
“I am in indifferent spirits this morning, Ernest,” was
Mr. Incledon's reply, “and I don't think I should tell
even you the cause of it. Don't ask me.”
“The cause of it? Not tell me!”
“I cannot.”
Sansoucy looked at his friend for a moment with great
surprise: then nodding, replied:
“Well, Ralph! Then I ask no questions—but your
visit is with some definite purpose, more than—”
“Simply friendly? Yes.”
And Mr. Incledon sighed.
“I leave town in the morning for a short time,” he said,
and I wish you to take charge of all the duties which we
share—you understand me.”
“Perfectly—up yonder.”
“Yes—it is double labor, but I will soon return.”
“Very well—I ask no questions and I acquiesce without
a word. But what in the world could have—there it
is! Pardon me, Ralph: I'm a journalist, and in my
quality as such, have a mania for procuring the `latest
intelligence' with full details. But my mouth is sealed.
And Mr. Sansoucy fixed his lips firmly, as if determined
to preserve his character for resolution, and forbearance.
“It would scarcely interest you, Ernest—the reason for
my dullness, and my departure,” said Mr. Incledon, “and
I have no right to tell even you.”
“Perfectly satisfactory.”
“To another person I would not even say as much—it
is not my affair. Enough.”
“A thousand times enough, Ralph—and now say no
more about it. I hate your model friend who insists upon
having your bosom laid open before him, with its thoughts,
intentions, feelings, perhaps even its sufferings all patent.
There are things we do not whisper even to our wives,”
said Mr. Sansoucy, wishing to divert his friend from his
low spirits, by a jest, “and faith! I don't think it a bad
rule to tell them nothing—when we have wives!”
And having thus given a cheerful turn to the conversation,
Mr. Sansoucy, with that good humor which was like
and folded it conveniently to read a number of the
“Lorgnette,” which was published in its columns.
He had just fixed himself to read aloud one of the
admirable passages of that entertaining serial, when a
noisy step was heard ascending the stairs, and soon a
knock came at the door—a knock full of dignity and
authority and swagger—if the things are compatible.
“Enter!” said Mr. Sansouey, with the air of a man
who utters the word, frequently.
The door opened, and the worthy Captain Tarnish
made his appearanee.
Captain Tarnish looked even more splendid and martial
than before: his chin was higher in the air: his hat was
more on one side of his head: his boots seemed glossier,
and his hat: his nose was elevated at an angle which
expressed the consciousness upon its owner's part of a
great mission, not without some danger, which he intended
to swagger through the performance of, as impressively as
possible.
“Good morning, Captain Tarnish,” said Mr. Sansoucy,
bowing but holding his hand behind his back—“walk in,
sir.”
“Thank, you, sir,” said Captain Tarnish, grandly.
And looking at Mr. Incledon, he said:
“I believe I have a communication for you, sir!”
“For me, sir?” said that gentleman, coldly.
“Yes, sir—I believe your name is Incledon.”
“It is, sir.”
“Then I have this note for you, sir.”
And Captain Tarnish extracted from the breast-pocket,
where he had deposited it, as we have said, the note which
he had held between his—large-sized—kid-gloved fingers,
when we met him at the residence of the gentleman to
whom it was addressed.
“This is it, sir,” said Captain Tarnish, advancing two
steps with a martial swagger; “I'll wait for an answer,
and a reference to your friend, sir!”
Mr. Incledon took the note calmly and coolly, gazed
for a moment at Captain Tarnish, in a way which evidently
rendered that worthy ill at ease, and said:
“What does this note contain, sir, and from whom is it?”
“You will see by opening it, sir,” replied Captain Tarnish,
with his hand upon his hip, and straightening his
shoulders.
Mr. Incledon opened the note and read the following
words:
“Sir: You were guilty of an offence and an insult toward
me this morning, which your blood or my own will answer.
I told you as much, and I now repeat, that nothing but
the amplest satisfaction will suffice. You shall learn, sir,
that I am not to be thwarted with impunity—and Captain
Tarnish, the bearer of this note, will make the arrangements
for the meeting. Should you refuse, as I expect, I
will publish your name as coward! coward! coward!
mark me, sir!
“Your most obed't serv't,
Mr. Incledon read the note quite calmly, and then
stretching out the hand which held it, said:
“You may take this back, sir, to the source it issued
from.”
“Take it back!” cried Captain Tarnish, with his most
terrible frown.
“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Incledon, gazing serenely into the
Captain's face.
“Take what back!” said Sansoucy, reaching out his
hand and grasping the letter.
“A note from Mr. Fantish, the younger.”
And Mr. Incledon placed the billet in his friend's hand.
Mr. Sansoucy ran his eye over it rapidly, and frowning,
said:
“A challenge!”
“Yes! a challenge, sir,” said Captain Tarnish, precisely,
sir! a challenge, sir, to fight a duel, sir!”
And never had the Captain looked more terrible and
annihilating. Homer would have said that direful war
was shaken from his locks, and in his eyes rolled death,
and blood, and carnage.
“A challenge,” said Mr. Incledon, calmly and coldly:
which I refuse, sir. Go back to your friend, and tell him
as much.”
“Refuse, sir?” said the Captain, in a blustering tone.
“Yes, sir—refuse.”
“Would you be good enough to place your refusal
upon paper?”
“Why, sir?”
“I prefer it.”
“I do not wish to insult you, sir,” Mr. Incledon said,
“but doubtless your friend can trust to your word.”
“Trust, sir!” cried the Captain, who construed Mr.
Incledon's calmness into a desire to escape any altercation—and
so found his courage immensely increased
thereby: “trust, sir! I would have you remember, sir,
that I am not in the habit of allowing—”
“Well, sir—then you can't have any objection to my
sending Mr. Fantish my reply by you,” said Mr. Incledon,
calmly. “You may tell him, sir, that I refuse his
defiance upon two separate grounds. First, that I do
not recognize the right of any man to force me into the
field of honor—as I believe your phrase is, sir; and
secondly, that if I went thither, I should select some other
adversary than Mr. Fantish. Yes, sir,” added Mr.
Incledon, yielding for a moment to his old excitability:
“I request you to inform your friend, distinctly, that I do
not recognize his right to place himself upon my level—
or the level of any honorable man; and if he attacks my
good name, I will chastise him!”
“Sir,” cried Captain Tarnish.
“But this is wrong,” muttered Mr. Incledon, who had
scarcely heard the Captain's interjection; “this is unnecessary,
and a mere giving way to passion. Tell your
friend, Mr. Fantish, sir,” he said aloud and quite calmly:
that I will not go to fight with him—that I do not look
upon the pistol as my umpire—that his note is sent back
to him, as if I had never read it.”
And Mr. Incledon inclined his head with great dignity,
and turned away.
“Sir!” said Captain Tarnish, who was now more than
ever confirmed in his views of Mr. Incledon's courage:
“sir! I am not to be received and treated thus!”
“You, sir!”
And Mr. Incledon wheeled round with a contempt,
which, however, disappeared in a moment, before his
great self-control.
“I have no quarrel with yourself,” he added, calmly,
sitting down; “let us part in peace, sir.”
“Nor any with my friend, it seems, sir!” said Captain
Tarnish, preparing to launch a parting swagger at his
opponent.
“Not of this description,” Mr. Incledon said, as
calmly.
“Well, sir! all I have to say is, that I do not permit
myself to be treated thus with insult!” said Captain
Tarnish, rising on his heels, and scowling terribly.
“I intend none, sir,” Mr. Incledon said, with a manifest
struggle, and a successful one, to resist any rising
anger.
“You give it, though, sir.”
“I am sorry.”
“Recollect, sir!” cried the Captain, curling his mustaches,
and inspired with terrific ferocity by his opponent's
mildness: “recollect, sir! that I am Captain Tarnish,
and when I come—”
“You know the way back again! Is that your meaning,
Captain Tarnish?” said Mr. Sansoncy, interposing
in the colloquy, and confronting him
“Sir! my meaning?”
“My meaning, Captain Tarnish,” said Sansoucy, who
began to flush: “is simply this, sir—that if you are
ignorant of the way back, I will show it to you!”
And Mr. Sansoucy advanced two steps toward the
Captain, in a way so threatening, that his adversary
unconsciously drew back.
“Yes, sir!” said Mr. Sansoucy, carried away by rage:
“you shall not vent your miserable threats here upon a
gentleman, who only spares you from contempt! You
shall not make the atmosphere of my apartment foul with
your swaggering, and bluster, and Dutch courage! I say
again, sir, and I say it so distinctly that you shall not
misunderstand it, or affect to—that unless you immediately
descend those steps, sir, I will send your carcass
down them in a way you will not relish!”
And giving way to that indignation which he had for
some time curbed, Mr. Sansoucy advanced upon Captain
Tarnish with the evident intention of immediately effecting
what he had threatened to do.
Let us not think too harshly of the worthy Captain for
his conduct under the circumstances. Perhaps the philosophers
will explain, some day, the modus by which lofty
courage, like a machine overstrained, collapses and is useless
to the engineer, precisely because pushed to an undue
action.
It could scarcely be expected that Captain Tarnish
should lay in a stock of heroism sufficient not only to
carry him grandly through so trying an interview, but to
hold out through a physical and personal contest afterwards.
It thus happened, that when Mr. Sansoucy, with the
most brilliant and earnest expression in his eyes, advanced
quickly in the direction of the Captain, that gentleman
muttered an indistinct and bitter curse, clutched nervously
his stick, and going from the apartment slammed the door,
and went away down the steps—in the natural and
agreeable manner customary with him, and the rest of his
species.
Sansoucy gazed for a moment at the door which separated
him from his adversary; curled his lip with an
elaboration which was powerfully expressive, and then
turning to his friend, said coolly:
“What a miserable feeling it must be, to boast and
swagger, bluster and utter threats, and then to sneak away,
and hide the head, and disappear, like this man!”
36. CHAPTER XXXVI.
WHAT TOOK PLACE AT THE SHOOTING GALLERY.
Of the conversation that followed this scene, between
the two friends, left thus to themselves, we need not speak;
our history, which aims to present results, does not demand
a repetition of these details here.
It naturally turned—the colloquy of the friends—upon
the subject which had so suddenly thrust itself upon their
attention; and gradually passing from a consideration of
the actual circumstances, Mr. Incledon and his friend discussed
branches.
The reader will thus perceive that we omit nothing
necessary to the comprehension of the history, in forbearing
to follow the conversation. Abstract discussions are
scarcely entertaining, and so the conversation of the
friends is spared the reader.
But still, before proceeding with the events which
followed, it may be permitted to a solitary writer to
express his thoughts upon this subject, in a few brief
words—to say that, in his own opinion, what the age calls
its code of honor is pitiable, irrational, and bloody—that
duelling, in all its ramifications, under any circumstances,
is as ludicrous, and pitiable, an inconsequence, as any
prejudice by which the minds and actions of men ever have
been led, and governed, and enslaved. In the middle
ages—with the sword at the side, the leg in the saddle—
the highway or the street filled with two classes only,
friends and enemies—then there was something to be said
in support of the single combat; when often it was
reduced to your own life or your enemy's, your own sword
through his heart, or his through your own—in a word,
self-defence or death. There was then something rational
in the clashing of two swords, the breast to breast conflict—and
the rationality remains with men, thrown in a
similar attitude, to-day. But to perpetuate that bloody
fashion of a faulty past—to force into the calm flow of the
nineteenth century, the weakness and failing of the ninth—
to declare that a tone of the voice, a word hastily uttered,
a breach of etiquette, even, shall make it necessary for an
place, and take his adversary's life or yield up his own—
this is the ludicrous and bloody inconsequence which makes
the age silent in applause of it, and yet forces men whose
minds and hearts reject and loathe the system, to pour out
every drop of their heart's blood in obedience to it. The
terrible offence against every law of God and man, in thus
appealing to a bloody child's-play, need not even be
touched upon; such an argument has little weight. It is
the rational aspect of the affair—the coldly rational—that
overturns and routs it with a word, and stamps it as the
weak and sanguinary prejudice of men who inherit a tradition,
and are bound by it in chains stronger than the
shackles of a slave. It is the rational aspect which shows
plainly that participants in these affairs, fight neither for
revenge, or from hatred; but because they depend for their
opinions of themselves upon what others say of them—
and shrink before the ordeal with a pitiable fear, and go
and take a life they do not want—shed blood that cries
out from the ground against them to their latest hour, and
makes them children—fearful of the very winds and darkness.
This is the fatal flaw in all the poor sophistry—the
fact that they have suffered none of those terrible domestic
wrongs which madden the brain, and make the heart
thirsty for the perpetrator's blood—that they would not
risk the chance of leaving wives and children to the charity
of the world, for all the mines of Peru or Golconda—that
nothing in them calls for blood, except the poor whisper
of a false self-respect—“take care, they will laugh at
you!” It is this which causes so many such affairs to be
which makes the world laugh and jeer—this well-known
fact that men act without any thirst for blood, with reluctance,
with dread: and that this is done in obedience
to a narrow and pitiable fear of ridicule; the laughter of
worldlings among men, or the whispers of women—of
women who forget that God is over them, and that some
day they will have a bloody reckoning to settle for their
words. We utter what the minds of the best and most
intelligent men, of every society of our times, believe and
are convinced of: we utter what will be acquiesced in by
all classes but the Captain Tarnishes, and those resembling
him—the fungi of the times—excrescences which break
out on the body social from the working of its purulent
and corrupt humors. Some day—to-morrow, or the next
year, or the next age—this pitiable and melancholy weakness
will be swept away: that public opinion, arising from
the noblest and most expanded culture of the brain and
heart, will strike it: and the very existence of a system
so degrading to immortals, will become a subject for the
wonder or the incredulity of men. That time comes
slowly—but it will come.
Mr. Incledon promised his friend to call again some
time in the course of the day, as he would probably be
passing, in making his arrangements for departure:—and
making this promise, he rose calmly, and wrapping his
cloak around him, took his departure.
Mr. Sansoucy sat for an hour, thinking of the events of
the morning—then finding his dinner hour approach,
went and performed almost a mere ceremony in that particular—and
pondered.
“Well, Ralph is a man of resolution, really enormous,”
he said, with a sigh, at last, and as the result of his reflections,
“and I don't know what will be the end of all this.
As long as Tarnish is mixed up with the affairs, however,
I am second principal in the struggle, and I'll do my part.
Bah! how I do despise these two men—and yet they have
the power, perhaps, to injure Ralph or myself. It is not
ambiguous voices which these gentlemen sprinkle—they
do not stop at falsehood! Tarnish, I'll bet, is over yonder
now, giving his version of the scene here this morning!
Can it be! can he be making up his falsehood, and retailing
it! He shan't misrepresent Ralph—I'll go see.”
And as suddenly as the resolution was conceived, did
Mr. Sansoucy put it into execution.
He summoned his servant, ordered him to direct any
one who called on business, to the shooting gallery, which
was near at hand: and then wrapping his overcoat about
him, issued forth, and soon reached the gallery.
The shooting and fencing gallery, in which Monsieur
Guillemot officiated, in the capacity of pistol-loader—foil-straitner,
mark-bearer, and fact-totum, generally, in place
of the proprietor, was one of those establishments so often
met with in cities, and much frequented by young gentlemen
engaged in killing time—an enemy which is savagely
attacked, and gotten rid of summarily, by billiards, cards,
wine drinking, races, and divertisements of a thousand
descriptions, more or less partaking of a rapid character.
True, there is little honor or profit to be derived from
in even the most plump and well-stocked purse:—neither
is there any especial glory or subject for triumph in causing
a bell to ring at ten paces, with a pistol ball; but
still the direful enemy, Time, is routed by their assistance,
and the chief end of human life is accomplished.
The philosophy of Monsieur Guillemot's connection with
the gallery was better founded. His attention to the
pistols and the foils, brought him in a moderate, but sure
sum of money: and with this money, Monsieur Guillemot
assiduously administered to that life which his youthful
visitors seemed to be so desirous to get through with.
A sheet-iron board, of large size, marked in chalk, with
the figure of a man, whose heart was represented by a
bell—a number of tables, upon which were scattered foils
and masks—a group of gentlemen, among whom Monsieur
Guillemot glided, handing pistols, giving the word, and
performing his duties—this was the sight presented to
Mr. Sansoucy, when he entered.
Immediately in front of the door, stood Captain Tarnish—and
by his side, Mr. Fantish, whose face still wore
a cold sneer, from the events of the morning.
Captain Tarnish, who held a discharged pistol in his
hand, and was talking to an acquaintance, turned round,
as the door opened, and recognizing Mr. Sansoucy,
greeted him with a frown.
Having no desire to meet the Captain in combat at
the moment, Mr. Sansoucy passed by him without paying
any attention to his menacing look, which Mr. Fantish
Guillemot.
“Ah, Mossieu Sansoucí!” said the old Frenchman,
“charmè de vous voir! what fine day!”
“Very cold, though,” said Mr. Sansoucy.
“Ver cold, but fine! You see my friends, Lacklitter,
to-day?”
“No; I've been busy.”
“Ah, Mossieu! nevare work too hard with head.
'Tis bad—'tis very bad, Mossieu Sansoucí!”
“So it is, my dear friend, and I have come over here to
look around, and listen, and perhaps take a few shots.”
“Ah, you will shoot!”
“Yes; come try your hand with me, Monsieur Guillemot.”
“I try my hand, Mossieu! You shoot with poor
Guillemot, who is bank-a-root, Mossieu! Quel honneur!”
“Honor? not at all. I think the honor will be on
your side,” said Sansoucy, amused at the modest self-appreciation
of the polite old Frenchman. “You”ll
beat me.”
“Beat you! nevare—ah! nevare Mossieu mon ami!”
cried the fencing master, shrugging his shoulders, elevating
his eyebrows, and turning out his hands which held
two pistols, “'tis too much honneur to 'ave for my friend
such gentleman as Mossieu Sansoucí. 'Tis true, Mossieu,
'tis very true. Voici le Capitaine Tarnish—he will shoot
with you, Mossieu!”
Captain Tarnish turned round upon hearing his name
spoken, and scowled at Monsieur Guillemot.
“What did you say?” he asked.
“I say, Monsieur le Capitaine,” said the Frenchman,
“that you and Mistare Sansoucí will shoot together, if it
please you!”
“Shoot!”
“Practeese, Mossieu.”
“Well, sir, I have no objection. I believe I have heard
a good deal of this gentleman's shooting, but I have never
seen it.”
“Nevare!” said the Frenchman, “est il possible! you
'ave nevare seen Mistare Sansoucí—him, Mossieu?”
“No.”
“Well see him now—here are ze pistols.”
“I am ready.”
Sansoucy stood completely thunderstruck at the impertinence
and want of delicacy in this man, who had only a
few hours before retreated ignominiously from him, under
a personal threat. He scarcely seemed to realize that
any one calling himself a man, could abdicate so completely
all self-respect.
It may thus easily be understood, that Mr. Sansoucy
was very far from intending to enter the lists of friendly
contest with a man whom he could not refrain from
despising.
“I am ready, sir,” said Captain Tarnish, with a grand
air, as he advanced to take the loaded pistol which Monsieur
Guillemot extended toward him.
“And I am not, sir,” said Mr. Sansoucy, in a freezing
tone, “I only shoot with gentlemen and my friends.”
The words, full of unmistakeable contempt and insult,
Tarnish's offer to try issues with his opponent, every
one in the gallery, who had gotten an inkling of the interview
of the morning, drew back, and ceased speaking.
It was then in the middle of a dead silence, that Mr.
Sansoucy uttered these distinct words:
“I am not ready, sir. I only shoot with gentlemen
and my friends!”
For an instant Captain Tarnish stood like a statue of
bronze, gazing at the cold face of his opponent.”
“Sir!” he said, at last, with an explosion, “do you
mean to insult me!”
“You may understand my words just as you please`”
replied Mr. Sansoucy, rivetting his eyes upon his opponent's
with as much contempt as anger; “just as you
please, sir! That is the privilege I grant you.”
Captain Tarnish placed his left hand upon his pistol,
and sprung the hammer back. As he did so, Mr. Sansoucy
felt a hand touch his arm, and this hand which
belonged to Monsieur Guillemot, contained the second
pistol.
“Are you ready, gentlemen,” said Monsieur Guillemot,
affecting to regard the conversation as a jest, “the bell is
not ring this morning.”
“I will shoot with you, not with this person,” said Mr.
Sansoucy, coldly taking the pistol.
Captain Tarnish's weapon pointed at the floor. If it
had been the intention of that worthy to commit a murder,
the sight of the pistol in his adversary's hand, caused him
said boastfully.
“I thought I would not see the fine shooting I was
promised.”
“By me, sir? you refer to our conversation some days
since?”
“I do, sir?”
“Well, I'll reply to that, sir?”
“You will much oblige me, sir!”
And Captain Tarnish made a threatening movement
with his pistol.
“I will oblige you,” said his opponent with a contempt
and coldness, galling in the extreme, even to the
Captain. “I reply simply, that I will not degrade
myself by meeting in friendly contest a man who brings a
bullying and insolent swagger to insult my friends with—
and finding that his miserable errand is abortive, ignominiously
abandons the position he has assumed, at the
first word! There is my reason for refusing, sir!”
As Mr. Sansoucy uttered these words, Mr. Fantisn
advanced toward him pale and sneering:
“A miserable errand, did you say, sir?” he asked,
coldly,
“Yes, sir—if I am forced to quarrel, let it be with
both, and let it be before everyone. Gentlemen,” added
the speaker, raising his voice, and addressing the group
which had gathered round them: “my friend, Mr. Incledon,
tells me that he disappointed an attempt of this
gentleman to commit an infamous wrong, this very morning—a
mortal defiance, couched in terms of the bitterest
who retreated from my room before a threat of personal
chastisement. You shall judge now, whether I or the
officers of the law, are the proper umpires of the dispute.
I declare, distinctly, that nothing but the necessity of self-defence,
shall force me to have any contest with these
persons!”
Undoubtedly an attack would have followed these
words in a moment, but just as Mr. Sansoucy concluded,
a voice at the door said, suddenly:
“Ernest! Ernest!”
And Mr. Incledon, wrapped in his cloak, entered the
apartment, and approached the group quickly.
He had gone to Mr. Sansoucy's room—been directed
by the servant to the shooting gallery, and had arrived
just at the crisis of the dispute.
No sooner had Mr. Fantish become aware of the presence
of Mr. Incledon, than forgetting the new quarrel,
he turned like an enraged tiger upon the man he hated
so profoundly.
“Good!” he said, seizing the pistol in Captain Tarnish's
hand; “this little affair may wait. Ah, sir! at last
I meet you face to face!”
And grinding his teeth with rage, he pointed to the
table, on which lay a number of loaded pistols.
“Take your weapon, sir! I will force you, sir! now,
now! this very instant—here!”
And actually white with passion, Mr. Fantish cocked
his weapon.
Mr. Incledon stood perfectly still, and gazed as coldly
he stood opposite to him with a similar weapon, giving a
similar challenge.
“I will not fight with you, sir,” he said: “and that
for the separate reasons, that I do not consider myself
called to meet you: would not, if I were—and, lastly,
that you are better used to your weapon than myself
This is a lesser objection, however, sir.”
And Mr. Incledon stood like a statue before his enraged
adversary, who twice raised his pistol with the
crime of murder in his heart.
But Mr. Fantish never completely lost his reason; and
nothing but madness could have led him to fire upon an
unarmed man in presence of a dozen witnesses.
“You refuse! do you wish me to strike you, sir, and
dishonor you? You refuse,” he said, with almost a howl
of rage: “you refuse upon the miserable pretence that
you are not accustomed to the pistol. But you shall not
escape, sir! I have seen you fence, and we are good
matches—there, sir!”
And seizing two foils, Mr. Fantish snapped off the
buttons, leaving the sharp steel points, and grasping
one, threw the other on the table, close to Mr. Incledon's
right hand.
“Refuse now! and I will brand you as a coward! yes,
sir, as a coward!”
The tone of these words was unendurably insulting, and a
faint tinge came to his opponent's cheeks: his eyes flashed.
“Ah, you are not made of iron, I see! Take your
weapon, sir, or I will slap your face!”
With a movement, which was perfectly unconscious,
Mr. Incledon threw back his cloak, and as he did so, a
shudder passed over his frame, and his eyes fell upon the
weapon.
“Defend yourself!” cried his adversary, advancing
furiously to strike; “defend yourself, or I will drive my
foil through your craven heart!”
The cup was full.
Mastered by passion, aroused from the depths of his
nature, and yielding to the fiery thought, that, after all,
it was only self-defence in him, Mr. Incledon grasped the
handle of the foil, and parried the blow which Mr. Fantish
directed at his heart.
The contact of his hand with the long unused weapon
seemed to change the man into his former passionate self:
and losing thought of everything but the adversary before
him, he rushed toward him as savagely as he had been
attacked.
The two enemies were both excellent fencers, and the
hilts of their weapons clashed and held them thus face to
face for an instant.
Then the combat commenced really, and the crowd drew
back from the spot, frightened by the furious cruelty of
the weapons, which flashed like lightning in the powerful
hands of the adversaries.
In ten minutes, Mr. Incledon, overcome with fury, and
feeling a giant's strength in his wrist, had driven his opponent
to the table on the opposite side; and there, parrying
a desperate lunge, had closed and driven his weapon full
upon his enemy's heart.
One moment would have seen the end of Mr. Fantish—
only his thin silk waistcoat and linen protected him from
the sharp point, driven by the furious hand—in one moment
Mr. Incledon might have ended the contest by taking
his adversary's life.
But he did not. He arrested his hand as it was driving
the point home: and said with a shudder:
“Take your life—I have no use for it.”
The words were not uttered, when Mr. Fantish, livid
with rage, drove his sword forward completely through
his opponent's shoulder, in which it snapped.
At the same moment, Captain Tarnish seized the weapon
of Mr. Incledon, but received immediately a violent
blow from Mr. Sansoucy, which cut and brought the blood
from his temples, and threw him backward.
Mr. Fantish rose erect; and as he did so, Mr. Incledon
dropped his weapon, and leaning one hand on the table,
would have fainted but for prompt assistance.
“A murder!” cried Sansoucy, throwing himself
toward Mr. Fantish, “I arrest this man for murder!”
But the movement of the crowd separated them, and
Mr. Fantish, finding himself unobserved for the instant,
shrunk from the group which supported Incledon, and
with a curse upon his lips rushed through the door and
disappeared.
Sansoucy, with his own hand drew out the broken steel,
and staunched the blood.
As he rose, he looked round with his fiery eyes for the
man who had caused this—saw that he had disappeared—
ran to the window and threw it up, to call on passers by to
pale.
Mr. Fantish had descended the stairs, and leaped into
his open carriage—caught the reins—and struck his fiery
horses violently with the whip.
Driven to fury by the cruel blow, they reared, started
forward like lightning, and crashing against the stone abutment
of the corner of the street, broke the carriage into
a thousand pieces. Mr. Fantish, hurled out violently, fell,
striking his temple against the stones.
This was what Mr. Sansoucy had witnessed
37. CHAPTER XXXVII.
DOCTOR FOSSYL AND HIS PATIENT.
Since the scene related in the last chapter, more than
two weeks had passed—weeks in which dreary winds have
beaten against window-panes, snow-storms fallen silently,
and the hard, frozen earth grown colder; and the human
passions, whose disastrous consequences we have traced,
grown colder too, and died away, and left the brains
heated by them, cool once more, and sensitive to all of
good in human hearts.
Stretched on his bed, with a countenance so thin and
pale, that it scarcely resembles anything earthly, Mr. Fantish
lies, breathing faintly, and with the measured movement
of the invalid who barely possesses strength enough
to expand his lungs, and draw in the element which
ministers to life.
On the table a host of medicine-bottles show that the
utmost art of the physician has been exerted to retain in
the feeble frame the fainting spirit of life, balanced upon
its pinions, and ready at any moment to take its flight.
But it has slowly returned to its prison-house of clay—
the trance of pain and anguish has passed away—the
blood once more begins to move and flow regularly through
the nearly stiff channels of the weary frame: and life has
come back slowly, and is triumphant over its enemy,
death.
In those long hours of agony—agony not only of the
frame, but of the mind—the sick man has reflected long,
and painfully.
The shadow of death has made him regard in their
true light the passions to which he has yielded himself
for years:—all that is good in his nature has come back
to him, concealed, not choked out, by the poisonous overgrowth
of later years.
The curtain is not before the picture now; and from
the canvass a face full of love looks down upon him, pities
him, and seems to reach towards him hands which rain
down tenderness and blessings. Infinite mother's love!
which gilds the weary world, and holds the hard man
with silken cords more strong than chains of steel, and
breaks his heart with memories of the old, old days, and
changes, purifies and saves him!
What once he was afraid to look upon, and covered
with a curtain, shutting out from that pure presence the
associates whose looks and words were sacrilegious
almost, in their contrast with the portrait,—fills him now
him with a thousand blessings on her dying lips long
years ago, she lives again for him in the world of memory;
and going out of the faulty and repulsive present, he takes
refuge in the past, and feels the dear mother's lips upon
his brow, and moans to think of what he was and is, and
cries like a child, thinking of all her goodness to him
when he was indeed a little child, and knelt at her knee,
and clasped his hands in prayer.
Thank heaven, that if human souls are bad and foul,
and desperately bent on following the paths of evil, none
are wholly so. The man has never lived who has not at
some moment felt his heart sink within him, and his eyes
moisten, thinking of his childhood and that love which is
nearer the love of heaven, than anything else upon the
poor corrupt earth.
So he lies for a long time almost dreaming: thinking
of his childhood. Then his faint eyes rise to the picture;
and the lids moisten, and the man, murmurs, “mother!”
As he speaks the door opens, and his physician enters.
It is Doctor Fossyl, who, in passing on the day of his
accident, had supported him until he reached the house,
and since, attended to him.
“Doctor, he murmurs, “do you think I am out of
danger yet?”
“No,” growls the Doctor, but with less harshness than
usual.
“How long shall I live then?”
“I didn't say you were going to die!—remarkable,”
becomes by a little suffering!”
The invalid remains silent for a moment, and then says
faintly:
“So I will live and recover?”
“Yes—that is, it is probable, though you had a fall
hard enough to crack the scull of an ox.”
“It was terrible!” the sick man murmurs, closing his
eyes.
“Don't think about it,” Doctor Fossyl says, “and tell
me how you feel this morning.”
“Faint and weak, but with less pain—I think the bone
is uniting.”
“Certainly, it is.”
“I shall live.”
“Of course.”
“Do you know, Doctor,” murmurs the sick man, “that
I wish to live? I did not think I should have such a
desire for life. I never cared for my life, but I do now”
“Hum, sir! a very natural circumstance. That is the
way with most men: they don't care for their lives—
they'll run into a thousand perils—risk their necks in a
chase, or any other desperate amusement: they don't care
for life—not they! Well, that's all very fine. Only wait
until death reaches out his hand to clutch them, and they
find that their life hangs on a thread—presto! they are
anxious, terribly anxious for a little more life—a little
more time. They wish to renew the note—pay a small
discount of suffering and physic—and put miser Death off
sir, and you don't surprise me.”
The sick man makes a faint movement with his head,
as though these words do not describe his feeling.
“That is not what I mean, Doctor,” he says, lowly.
“What do you mean, then?”
“I mean that I have lived a miserable life heretofore—
and that I wish to break off from it, and go away, and
live better.”
The Doctor looked at the patient, and muttered, “the
old tale!” Then he says, aloud:
“So you are going to reform?”
“I am going to change my habits and associates!” is
the faint reply: “Do you know what that man, Tarnish,
did, Doctor?”
“Tarnish? Oh! that blackleg! No I do not.”
“I will tell you. He came here one morning, just
after you had left me, when I was too weak to move or
call; and said that my `cursed folly' had put him in
danger of a prosecution; and he was warned by a friend
of the intention of the officers of the law to arrest him on
suspicion of having been engaged in some crime—an abduction,
or something—do not ask me what.”
And the invalid pauses, with a faint color in his cheeks.
“Well, growls the Doctor, “what followed this interesting
communication of Captain Tarnish's.”
“Insult and robbery,” replied the sick man, “he loaded
me with abuse, until the bandage on my wound dripped
with blood—for the excitement caused my blood to flow—
and then having relieved himself of all the hatred which
my secretary there—opened it with the key from my
waistcoat pocket—and carried away with him two hundred
dollars, in gold, I had procured one day from bank,
and placed there in his presence.”
“Robbery!”
“Yes, Doctor—simple felony. I could not even raise
my voice, and with a last insult, he informed me that it
would be useless to inform against him: he would be out
of the way, before I could do anything. But I did not
wish to—I was willing to let this man depart; too well
satisfied to be rid of him.”
“What a scoundrel!”
“He was thrown with bad associates, and became depraved
by them, and by vice, I suppose, Doctor. Alas!
I have no right to judge hastily of him.”
And having, by these words, shown how total a change
in his character had taken place, the sick man adds, “now
you know, Doctor, what I mean, when I say that I am
resolved to change my habits, and my associates.”
The Doctor looked at the invalid with a dubious expression,
and it is plain that the meaning of this look is
understood.
“You mean that I am like sick men generally—that I
make a number of good resolutions during my weakness
and pain, which I will straightway forget, when I recover
my health and strength. But I think you are mistaken,
Doctor. I have been very ill two or three times, but never
formed any such resolutions. I attribute my present determination
to the fact that I have reached that point in
and dies speedily of drunkenness, or breaks away from his
bad life and changes. I wish to live and do this, Doctor;
shall I live?”
“Yes,” the Doctor says, looking vacantly at the patient,
“yes, it is true.”
“True, Doctor—what is?”
“I have seen it.”
“What, Doctor?—you seem to be thinking of something
else.
“Ah? What?” says the Doctor, waking up, as it
were, with a troubled brow.
“I asked if I would live, and if so, recover soon!”
“I do not know when you will recover—in two months,
may-be.”
“So long!”
“Perhaps longer.”
“What a time I shall have here, through the long,
weary days;—I have no books, or none that I care to
read: do you know, Doctor, I have not even a Bible!”
“A Bible!
“Not even a Bible. You think it strange I should
want a Bible—but my mother taught me to read in it,
Doctor—that is her portrait.”
And the invalid gazes with great softness on the picture.
“Hum,” growls the Doctor, “there 's a child down in
the passage who, as I am told, always carries a Bible.
Her uncle 's sick, and she 's come with me to get his medicine
from my office.”
“A child, Doctor?”
“Yes.”
“In my passage?”
“I suppose she is—I ordered her to get out of the
carriage, which is a perfect ice-house, and come in while I
saw you.”
“I wish you would ask her to come and lend me her
Bible until she returns—or rather to read me some, as
I 'm so weak.”
The doctor looks doubtfully at the sick man, and
growls:
“Do you know who this child is?”
“No, Doctor.”
“Her name 's Ellen Lacklitter, and I heard your
father—”
“Oh, Doctor! I remember without another word!
My father forced him from one of his houses, when he was
ill! Oh, doctor, don't speak of my father!”
And a frown contracts the sick man's brow.
“Do you want to see the child?” growls the physician.
“Yes, ask her to come up. I do not think she will feel
any enmity toward me, because I have the misfortune to
be afflicted with a cruel father. You smile in triumph,
Doctor, and would taunt me with the bad feeling that
remains in me. Well, sir, I do not deny that I retain a
sentiment toward the man who is my father, wholly improper—but
I cannot prevent it. You ought to tell the
child who I am, and then let her come if she will—if she
will not, I have no complaint to make.”
And the sick man sinks back.
Doctor Fossyl gazes at him for a moment, smiles sardonically,
where Ellie is sitting.
38. CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE WAYS OF PROVIDENCE.
Doctor Fossyl paused for a moment, gazing at Ellie;
then taking a pinch of snuff, and looking keenly from beneath
his shaggy grey eyebrows, said harshly:
“Child, do you know in whose house you are?”
“No, sir,” said Ellie, raising her eyes in astonishment
at this strange question, and the strange manner of the
speaker.
“You speak the truth?”
“Oh, yes, sir! yes, sir!”
“Well, I will tell you who lives here. His name is
Fantish.”
“Mr. Fantish, sir! Mr. Fantish who—”
“Turned your uncle into the street when he was sick,
like a dog? Yes, the same—or, at least, his son, who is
said to be even worse than his father!”
Ellie's cheeks were tinged with a faint color, and she
looked toward the door.
The doctor saw the look.
“Ah! you wish to leave immediately, do you? Eh?
You bear malice!—you are going!”
“Oh, no, sir!” said Ellie, earnestly; “I do not bear
would rather—I would rather go, sir.”
“You can't!” said the Doctor, keenly watching every
expression of the child's countenance.
“Can't, sir!” she said.
“No.”
“Why not, sir?”
“Because he has sent me for you.”
“He! he send for me, sir!”
“Yes: he told me to come down and say he wanted
you to come up.”
“Come up, sir!”
“Yes—and read to him in the Bible. I told him that
you were the niece of Joe Lacklitter, who, when he was
burnt up with fever, when his lips were parched and his
eyes fiery, when his brow was covered with the sweat of
agony, and his breath came in pants from his weak breast
—who, when he was thus overcome with pain and suffering,
was ordered to give up his house, the very bed he lay
upon, and go out naked into the snowy streets—all by
the elder Mr. Fantish, the young man's father. I told
him this, and said that probably you would not come,
and that nobody could blame you.”
“Oh! I should blame myself, sir, though!” said Ellie,
flushing with agitation. “I should never forgive myself
if I did not forgive him even if he had done this. Oh,
sir! if he wishes me to do anything, I will do it willingly!”
And taking off her old wadded bonnet, which allowed
her brown waving hair to fall around her face so soft and
pure, Ellie waited for the doctor to lead her.
The doctor stood looking at her in silence; then he
said harshly:
“Don't you hate that man?”
“Oh no, sir!”
“Why don't you?”
“It would be so sinful, sir! and I would not be obeying
the command `Love one another.”'
“Humph!”
And uttering this exclamation, Doctor Fossyl preceded
Ellie to the chamber.
“Here's the child!” he growled, as he closed the door.
The sick man looked at Ellie, who remained standing
near the threshold, and said faintly:
“What is your name, little girl?”
“Ellen, sir.”
“Ellen Lacklitter, is it not?”
“Yes sir,” said the child, coloring.
“My father treated your father—or your uncle—
harshly, did he not?”
Ellie stammered out a few disconnected words, which
were neither in the affirmative or the negative.
“Don't think of that, sir,” she said more calmly, but
timidly; “or speak of it, sir.”
“I speak of it in order to ask your forgiveness for
being connected with him; and to say that I had no part
in such cruelty as this.”
“Oh, sir!” murmured Ellie, almost as faintly as the
invalid.
“I understand—you defend him—that only proves that
you have one, and read some to me.”
He had scarcely spoken when a step was heard upon
the stairs, and a low knock came to the door.
The sick man turned paler than before—he had recognized
the step.
“My father!” he said.
“You will see him, of course;” said Doctor Fossyl,
with all his eyes and ears open for the details of the
strange scene which was about to be played before him.
“No!” said the invalid, coloring; “No! I will not.”
“He has been here, repeatedly.”
“It was, while I was insensible.”
“He is your father.”
“It is my misfortune.”
The knock was repeated.
“What shall I do?” said Dr. Fossyl, whose eyes glittered
with triumph—for his theories were in the ascendant
again at this evidence of bitter feeling.
“Say, I will not see him.”
“Must I!”
“Yes.”
The Doctor moved toward the door; but Mr. Fantish,
senior, had become weary, and opened the door, as he
touched the knob.
His appearance was much changed since we have seen
him, on that day when he and his son parted, with mutual
defiance. Mr. Fantish, senior, no longer surveys every
object around him with hard eyes, gleaming coldly from
his brows. He no longer produces the impression of a
last loaf to satisfy his claim. He is thinner, and even
pale. His cheeks have fallen away—his eyes are eager
and seem to crave something more than gold.
During his son's fever and delirium, he had come every
day, and sat at the bedside, and held the thin, feverish
hand in his own; and more than once, when the young
man's mind wandered, and he cried out in his delirium,
had wiped away something like moisture from his eyes,
long unused to weep.
As we have said, this man had one strong feeling, over
and above his passion for gain; and that was his love
for and pride in his brilliant and reckless son—who
had always occupied a singular position of independence
and freedom from parental restraint. When the news
reached him of the dreadful accident which placed the
young man's life in imminent jeopardy, he had felt a
shudder run through his heart, and had hastened immediately
to his bed-side.
These visits, as we have said, had been frequently
repeated, and he had watched the progress of the patient
with deep solicitude. One day he was informed that his
son's mind had become clear again, and had wished to go
up as usual. But this Dr. Fossyl had forbidden. It was
necessary that the patient should remain wholly quiet.
And the wretched father had gone away in silence. Another
day he had been informed that his son was asleep—and
thus he had not seen him since he had recovered his reason.
As he now pushed by Doctor Fossyl, who stood against
the wall, grim and silent, with that curiosity which was
eyes were full of earnest feeling, and he approached the
bed with a manner almost timid.
“God be thanked, you are yourself again, Ashell, “he
said tremulously, “you will soon recover.”
“Do not thank God for anything, sir,” said his son,
turning from him with a displeasure which was unmistakeable;
“the words sound badly in your mouth!”
The father uttered a sigh.
“You are not glad to see me!” he said, with a groan.
“No, I am not, sir!”
“Why are you so cruel?”
“I am just, sir.”
“Oh, no!”
“Yes, just!” said the young man, with a faint color in
his pallid cheeks, “and I lie here, because you are my
father.”
“Oh! Ashell!
“Yes, sir!”
The old man uttered a groan, and sat down as though
too weak to stand.
“Yes, sir! said the young man, speaking in a tone of
great excitement, in spite of Doctor Fossyl's warning gesture;
“yes, sir! this life which I have been leading,
which I loathe, and which has brought me here, was
caused by you. My mother would have made me pure like
herself—she would have suppressed those seeds of evil
which my character contained, and which have ripened
into this harvest: you developed them! I learned from
you to be worldly, and that taught me to be vicious!
you, and followed my own ways, and laughed at you, but
I obeyed your teachings! I came to look on life as a
farce, played by contemptible actors—I drank and played,
and wallowed in every vice.—I attempted to wrong, bitterly,
a woman—and I am justly punished! It was not
those wild horses who hurled me on that stone—it was
you, sir! It was not the last act of my miserable will
which laid me here, it was your hand strangling in me what
my mother taught me! And after all this, you think I
will love you! No, sir, I do not, and I cannot. I will
not be a hypocrite, and I speak plainly!”
Overcome with his bitter feelings, the young man fell
back, almost fainting.
The wretched father only said, in a low voice:
“Ashell! Ashell!”
“Well, sir!” his son said, turning away his head.
“I have been wrong!”
“You confess it!”
“Yes.”
“It is well, sir: but that does not restore me.”
“What can I do to show you how much I deplore the
unhappy relations that have existed between us! to show
you that I bitterly regret the past.”
“Nothing, sir.”
“Ah, yes, I can make my confession—”
“It is unnecessary, sir.”
“No, it is necessary: and no feeling of pride shall keep
me from saying what I have to say. I have lived a
miserable life, indeed, if my own son will not listen to me.
made money my god, and laughed at what other men
called pity and kindness, and benevolence! I have been
a machine which was useless for any other purpose, than
to scrape together coin. I taught you this, too—yes, I
tried to make you worldly and selfish. I succeeded in a
measure, and I see the bitter fruits of it. Your mother—”
“Do not mention her!” the sick man said, with a
groan.
“Oh, yes, I must, to make you see how I loathe my
conduct. Your mother would have taught you to be
true and pure—I taught you what was different. You
and your mother united yourself more closely, and I
thought it a conspiracy against me. I ill-treated her—
may God forgive me: and here, with her face looking
down upon me, I ask her spirit to pardon me, and humble
myself before you. Ashell, Ashell! you are not stone to
turn away from me.”
He looked at his father, with flushed eyes, and said, in
a trembling voice.
“If I am stone, it is you, sir, who have made me so.”
As he spoke, his eyes fell upon Ellie, who was gazing
at him with an expression of wild fear, which made her
countenance a spectacle to rivet the attention.
“What are you looking at me so for?” he murmured,
“have you, too, turned against me?”
“Oh, sir! do not!—do not!—it is wrong—!” cried
the child, carried away by her wild excitement. “Oh, it
is wrong, sir!”
And, overwhelmed with emotion, the child was silent,
gazing with an affrighted look upon his face.
“What is wrong?” he said, faintly, “speak! do not be
afraid! I wish you to speak. What is wrong?”
“Oh, you'll be offended, sir!”
“No! What is wrong?”
“To speak thus to your father, sir!” cried Ellie, trembling
with agitation. “Oh, do not, sir! it is not right!
Oh, if he has done wrong, you ought not to remember it,
sir! Oh, you ought not to!”
And, yielding to her agitation, Ellie covered her face,
and sobbed.
Her agitated words made a visible impression upon the
young man, who murmured:
“Like her, like her!”
And turning to his father, he said, with feverish eyes.
“Do you know this child, sir?”
“No, Ashell: I have never seen her.”
“Her name is Lacklitter.”
“Lacklitter!”
“Yes,” he said, feverishly, “and you turned her uncle
and herself into the street, when he was ill. God has
raised up a terrible witness against you, sir—and what a
witness! She pleads for the man who caused her wretchedness,
who was guilty of the direst cruelty toward her,
who is punished now by God, in the person of his son,
and in his own remorse!”
The old man gazed at Ellie, for a moment, with a
stupefaction which was painful to see.
“But if she has forgiven me, it is all the more cruel in
man, “if a stranger I have bitterly wronged, pardon me,
the son I have toiled and worn myself out for, should not
remain unforgiving. Oh, Ashell, I have done all this for
you—I have turned this child and her uncle into the
street for you. Yes! God has punished me terribly for
this act—and if asking pardon of this child, upon my
knees, would avail anything—”
“Oh, sir!” cried the child, raising her head and sobbing,
“do not think I bear any bad feeling—I have forgotten
all!—and God says we shall not keep bad feelings toward
each other—look, sir!” she said, turning toward the sick
man, and holding out her Bible, where she had opened it.
“Oh, see what it says!”
His eyes fell on the page, and he read not what Ellie
had pointed to, but words which seemed to be written
there with a pen of fire.
Strange coincidence! These words had been taught
him by his mother, when a child; and they now came back
to him like a far breath of infancy. It seemed to him that
his mother held the book toward him; not the child: he
seemed to see the eyes of the portrait fill with tears of tenderness
and love, as in the old, old days:—the thought
suddenly rushed over him that possibly the spirit of his
mother hovered in the air, and waited for the answer
which she could not influence as of old.
What would she have him answer? He did not hesitate.
He turned, and held out his thin hand toward his
father, his eyes filling with weak tears—say rather mighty
tears!—and pressing it to his heart and lips, the old man
for years.
At the same moment a young woman, seated leagues
away, in a dim chamber, bent down to her knees, and
sobbed, “How mad and base, and miserable I was—God
pardon me!”
At the same moment, a man, with his right arm in a
sling, and seated on a bank, which caught the flush of
evening, said, “How peaceful! after all these thoughts and
struggles, this is pure happiness! O merciful Redeemer
make us thine in all things!”
The father and son were reconciled;—the young girl's
eyes were opened;—the strong man was again face to face
with nature, and his heart.
| Ellie, or, The human comedy | |