University of Virginia Library

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

with astonishing agility, and was of range so extensive
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

door, and sometimes money. Oh, that was so good in
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—

he behaved in a way so very awkward and ridiculous.
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

the same across my throat, and be took up and laid out
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!