 | Ellie, or, The human comedy |  |
3. BOOK III.
1. CHAPTER I.
IN WHICH THE HISTORY RETURNS TO OTHER PERSONAGES:
AND CHRONICLES A SLEIGH-RIDE.
The great waves of time which ever flow on over joys
and griefs, over sorrows and rejoicings—scarcely reflecting
in their ever-changing surfaces, the brightest smiles, and
absorbing carelessly the bitterest tears—the waves of time
and another month has nearly passed into a thing of
memory. Winter faints on the threshold of the spring
which comes in, brilliant and rejoicing;—but as though
to marshal all his forces for a final struggle, the old
Winter has exhausted his entire strength in his last snow
storm.
At the door of a handsome and comfortable house in
the outskirts of the city, a sleigh is standing; and the
spirited horses, held with difficulty by a diminutive African,
who is suspended in the air from their foaming mouths,
toss their heads, and send the snow up in rainbow clouds
with their impatient hoofs.
Soon the door of the mansion opens—a good-humored
old gentleman and his equally good-humored wife appear;
and behind these may be seen the faces of a younger gentleman,
a young lady, and two little girls—all wrapped up
securely for a sleigh-ride.
The good-humored old gentleman is Mr. Ashton, cousin
and host of Miss Aurelia—the old lady is his wife; the
young gentleman is our friend, Mr. Sansoucy; the young
lady, Aurelia:—lastly, the little girls, who are twins, constitute
the entire, remaining family of the old gentleman
and his wife.
Miss Aurelia is enveloped in a multitude of furs, and
her rosy cheeks and dancing eyes, cause this young lady
to present an appearance decidedly attractive.
“Oh, me!” cries Miss Aurelia, laughing gaily, “am I
to trust my valuable neck to those wild animals.?”
“Pshaw!” Mr. Sansoucy says, putting on his gloves,
were wild, you know my prowess as a driver”
“I, sir!”
“Yes—when we were children—twenty years ago, you
know!—”
“Indeed, sir!”
“Come,” says Mr. Sansoucy, laughing: “here's a
young lady who is growing ashamed of her age, and who
does not deign to remember when we rode colts together—”
“Never, sir! I deny it!”
“Very well!”
“Oh, did you, cousin Aurelia?”
“Did you, cousin?”
These are the exclamations of Mademoiselles Lizzie
and Bel, who clap their diminutive hands, and rise on tiptoe
to look at the horses.
“Don't mind this gentleman, children,” says Aurelia,
with a delightful expression of elderly protection: “he's
dreadfully mischievous, and if he could run away with
us—”
“He would?” says Mr. Sansoucy.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I don't know that you are wrong, Miss Ashton.
But I promise to refrain to-day. Good morning, Mrs.
Ashton—good morning, sir—come, young ladies—we are
losing time.”
And Mr. Sansoucy issues forth, and takes the reins.
Aurelia and the children linger to embrace the old
folks, as young ladies of all ages will, and then they get
into the sleigh, which has four seats.
The manœuvres of Mr. Sansoucy upon that occasion,
would have excited the admiration of the greatest tactician
in the world.
His affectionate solicitude to see the children wrapped
up, warmly and comfortably, in the back-seat, was touching
to behold; and such was his anxiety about their
welfare, that he absolutely neglected Miss Aurelia, who
stood in the snow, and shivered and pouted beautifully.
As the children took up all the back seat thus, it was
absolutely necessary that Mr. Sansoucy should place
Aurelia on the seat beside himself; and this he did,
making a soft and pleasant seat for the young lady, by
spreading over it, a magnificent buffalo robe. A variegated
robe, edged with crimson, was then thrown over—
shall we say—Miss Aurelia's knees: and so, with joyous
laughter, and the noise of bells, the sleigh fled onward—
the frolicsome horses held in by the experienced hand of
their admirable driver.
On, through the city! sending up clouds of snow!—
by merry groups of boys at street corners, who sent after
the party showers of snow balls, which caused Bel and
Lizzie—recognizing beaus among the crowd—to shout
with laughter!—on, by the glittering stores, with their
picture-crowded windows, by the long rows of houses,
brilliant internally with roaring fires, by gentlemen and
ladies, children, and their sports—the merry sleigh flew
on, and out of the city, leaving in its wake the joyous
jingle of its silver bells, and disappearing like a meteor
or a shooting star.
They fled into the country, through the vast bleak-looking
every eye dancing with delight, even down—or up—to
Mr. Sansoucy, grown a boy again, and innocent of any
connection with the “Weekly Mammoth.” which had
passed away from him, and rested no more, for the
moment on his conscience!
“Oh! we are going so fast!” cries Miss Aurelia, with
cheeks rosier than when she started, and a pair of
diamonds in place of eyes; how delightful!”
“Is it?” says her companion.
“Yes, indeed.
“Like old times?”
“No, not a bit. Monsieur was not so elegant a
cavalier in old times.”
“Possible!”
“Not half!”
And Miss Aurelia laughs merrily.
“I thought you liked me very well in old times,” said
Mr. Sansoucy, with a look which caused the rosy face to
grow even rosier. “Come, sing me, `Where are the
friends of my youth? Oh, where are those cherished
ones gone?' ”
And having revived this former joke by a plagiarism
upon himself, Mr. Sansoucy touched his horses with the
whip, and caused them to fly.
“I will not,” said Miss Aurelia, pouting; “if I sang
anything, it would be the new song.”
And she hummed, with a blush, and a laughing
glance, a lyric, which declared that under certain circumstances,
“go to Jericho.”
This was much applauded by Mr. Sansoucy, who
requested the remainder of the song, which was promptly
refused: and they fled on again—the bells having for
their undertone, the laughter of the happy children.
“Where is Monsieur taking us?” said Aurelia, after
a moment: “we must have gone nearly a hundred
miles!”
“Couldn't you go that far—with me?”
“No, sir!”
“How cruel! Now Bel or Lizzie would—wouldn't
you, little ones?”
“I would!” said Miss Bel, who had a pair of large,
dangerous eyes, which she was already learning to use.
“And you, Lizzie?” said Mr. Sansoucy, shaking with
laughter.
“If you brought us back to papa and mamma by dinner-time,”
said Lizzie, smiling.
“Dinner-time!” cried Mr. Sansoucy, shaking more
than ever: “can you think of dinner on such a day as
this?”
“I can, sir,” said Miss Aurelia, with a delicious expression
of matter-of-fact; “and I request to know
whether we are to dine at home, to-day, or on the Rocky
Mountains?”
“On the prairie!” said Mr. Sansoucy: “on the prairie,
and off of buffalo hump!”
“Oh! how nice that will be!” cried Miss Aurelia,
Sancoucy's arm, which chanced to interpose—which circumstance
caused the young lady to cease immediately,
and quickly draw away her hand.
“That bridge yonder—do you see it?” Mr. Sansoucy,
said, laughing.
“Yes!”
“Well, that bridge leads over the Mississippi—so we
are almost there.”
“`Are we almost there!”'
“Yes; what a charming voice.”
“Thanks, sir!”
“Have you adapted the song I wrote, in obedience to
your ladyship's commands, to music yet?” said Sansoucy.
“Hum!—well—”
“Oh! indeed you have, cousin Aurelia!” cried Bel.
“It's so pretty!” said Lizzie.
“And so very suitable!” said Aurelia, satirically.
“There's the unreasonableness of woman!” cried Mr.
Sansoucy, in despair. “I am asked to write upon a
given subject—I comply; and then I am taunted with
my compliance—a thing which I might have expected,”
added the speaker, with a gloomy look, “for who can
calculate upon women!”
Aurelia is touched by this tone of uncomplaining
sorrow, and says, faintly:
“You are very unjust, sir; and you have no right to
expect—if, however, I knew it a little better—”
“Oh! you know it very well!” cried little Bel; “you
were singing it all last night, cousin Aurelia!”
Miss Aurelia blushes and laughs.
“Please sing it, cousin, says Liz.
“And if my humble petition now renewed would—”
“Well, sir, I will try; and perhaps the contrast will
amuse you.”
And Miss Aurelia commences singing the following
lyric, which has been, as the reader heard, contributed by
Mr. Sansoucy—the design having been to furnish Misses
Liz and Bel with a song for their May-day festival, still
a long way off.
The merry sleigh bells serve for an accompaniment; and
the fine, tender voice of the young girl, with an undertone
of laughter, sings “The Children's Prayer to Maia,” which
is in the following words:
For our nice May-day: let no misty rain,
Now when our holiday has come so near,
Fall on the sweet flowers, springing in the plain.
Give us a morning full of light and joy.
Dear Maia; you, they say, are queen of May:
Make the time bright and sweet for girl and boy;
Make the sky blue and worthy of the day:
For the gay garlands glitter, flower on flower,
And muslin dresses hang out in the sun,
And all is ready for the morning hour;
Run quickly, sun! through the dim night-time run!
For all the girls are binding up their hair,
And all the boys are dreaming of the morn
And it's so nice to breathe the sunny air!
Therefore, good Maia, let the day be born.
With joy and merry music swimming through
The laughing air; and birds upon the trees
Singing for lightness; and a pretty blue
In the far sky: and murmuring busy bees!
Oh, Maia listen to us! we will try
And always love you, if we wake and find
The sunlight in the beautiful, cloudless sky!
Give us a sunny morning, Maia, dear!
Give us light hearts, the livelong happy day—
May nothing happen that will bring a tear,
But all be laughter; Maia, hear us pray!
For we are children, nothing more: the things
That please old grown-up people are not ours!
Wake the May morn with every bird that sings;
Deck the bright hill-sides with your fairest flowers!
“Bravo!” cries Mr. Sansoucy, “never did troubadour
of Provence feel such ecstacy of delight at hearing his
own verses chaunted by the Queen of Love, at Aix!”
“Oh, how nice!” cries Bel.
“What 's mice, Miss Bel?”
“To call cousin Aurelia the Queen of Love!” cries
Bel, laughing merrily, and using her great eyes for Mr.
Sansoucy's benefit.
“She 's the queen of hearts!” cries Sansoucy, enthusiastically.
“But not Mr. Heartsease's!” replies Bel, with a shout
of laughter, in approbation of her first brilliant witticism.
“Heartsease!” murmurs Mr. Sansoucy, with a miserable
expression. “Heartsease! Never!”
“Never!” repeats Bel; “he never shall have cousin.”
“What a foolish child you are Bel,” Aurelia says, coloring
and laughing; “Mr. Sansoucy will think you are a
little chatter-box.”
“Oh, no he won't, cousin—will you, Mr. Sansoucy?”
“No, my little one.”
“For you know you said Liz and me were `cherubs'—
that was the very word!”
And the cherub laughs in a way eminently uncherubial.
“What nonsense we are all talking!” cries Aurelia, who
has regained all her merriment. “What nonsense! Only
suppose some author heard us, and was to set down every
word we say! How ridiculous it would be!—and everybody
would say he rioted in folly and frivolity.”
“Frivolity!” said Mr. Sansoucy, smiling too, “frivolity
is a terrible word, and knocks down more poor authors
than you could count. But, really, I don't see why we
should n't laugh and jest, my dear Aur—pardon! pardon!”
“There! that is a piece of folly, sir! and if you were
made a character in a book, the readers of the book would
say you were very impudent!” said Miss Aurelia, pouting.
“They would not;—they would admire me, and venerate
the lofty virtues which unbent themselves thus,
madam.”
“Oh, yes, certainly!”
“See, now, if they do not. I know a friend who writes
these frivolous romances: he lives in a garret, never stirs
out of town, even in the dog-days, and wears seedy garments,
as is proper in an author. Well, I will relate my
adventures to him, and we 'll all be put in a book! Think
of the honor! Yes, even you, mam'selles Bel and Liz,
will be immortalized—even down to your beaux yeux, little
Bel! I 'll buy a dozen copies—for your authors are
always out of money—and present a copy to each of you.”
“Oh, me! will you?” cries little Bel, with immense
eyes.
“Indeed I will!”
“How nice!”
And little Bel claps her hands, in the midst of universal
laughter. As she does so, the sleigh mounts a slope, and
they see just beneath them the bridge they had caught
sight of from the distant eminence—and for some mysterious
and unexplained reason, Miss Aurelia's pouting lips
unclose, and permit to escape, in a murmur, this single
word:
“The bridge!”
2. CHAPTER II.
HOW MR. SANSOUCY NEARLY RAN OVER A WOMAN, AND
WHAT FOLLOWED.
Doubtless Mr. Sansoucy heard this faint exclamation,
for his countenance assumed an expression of mischievous
pleasure, wholly unmistakeable.
Did you speak, madam?” he said, politely.
“No, sir—”
“Really, now?”
“Not to you, at least.”
“Oh, yes—to the bridge. I forgot that you addressed
the bridge.”
“Why should I be so foolish as to apostrophize such a
thing?”
“Very true; and as this is ended, madam, we may proceed
to make our little arrangements.”
“Our little arrangements, sir!”
“Certainly!”
“Really, I am at a loss—”
“To understand?”
“Precisely, sir—at least—that is—”
And Miss Aurelia, detecting herself in the utterance
of a most unmistakeable fib, blushes ingenuously, and
murmurs:
“How foolish you are!”
Mr. Sansoucy laughs triumphantly, and says:
“Certainly we are foolish—both of us—and what makes
it more ridiculous—what will cause the readers of the
before-mentioned romance about us to cry out in deprecation—is,
that we are so old. You are nearly nineteen,
madam—or quite—I am at least a hundred.”
“Are you, sir?”
“Yes, and never have been married; what a shame!”
“Dreadful, sir!”
“Therefore, as we are so old, we need not discuss the
`little arrangements' among ourselves; but these children,
here, require instruction.”
Aurelia, with a laugh half of defiance, half of pleading,
murmurs:
“Oh, you will not—please don't!”
“Don't what, cousin?” says Bel, full of curiosity,
as she catches the faintly uttered words.
“I'll explain, Miss Isabella,” said Mr. Sansoucy, laughing.
“You must know, Miss, that in old times there was
an English law of custom making it proper, and even
necessary, to salute—in other words, kiss—young maidens
rafters. This custom has passed away—but it is replaced.
In modern times, every gentleman of proper feeling is
compelled to salute a lady who in riding with him in a
sleigh, crosses a bridge!”
“Oh!” cries Bel, wonderingly; “to kiss?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“So you and cousin—”
“Yes, exactly. You're a young lady of intelligence.
You have no cavalier, now, Liz. The consequence will
be that it will be necessary to salute each other—here
we are! Recollect, now!”
As Mr. Sansoucy spoke, the sleigh darted on the bridge
—but alas! for human anticipations.
His fairness, and open dealing as he afterwards said,
was his ruin. Aurelia, warned in advance, and on her
guard, no sooner saw the bridge imminently near, than
covering her face with her great white snow-ball ornamented
comfort, she held it securely, thus, defeating the
enemy completely.
Not wholly, however. The small white hand holding
up the comfort suddenly found itself in contact with a
pair of warm lips, which imprinted upon it a burning
salute; which circumstance caused the rosy face beneath
to present a striking contrast to the snowy worsted.
The merry party then fled onward, merrier than ever
and with laughter drowning all the silver chimes.
Aurelia declared that she had triumphed—Mr. Sansoucy
assured her that his utmost expectations had been
fulfilled; and in the middle of these protestations little
gentleman” and stolen her kiss, in obedience to instructions.
Soon after passing the bridge, Mr. Sansoucy looked at
his watch and said that it was time to return, if the ladies
were willing. The children were rebellious, but Aurelia
acquiesced; and so they came back as rapidly as they
went forth. This time Miss Aurelia enveloped her whole
head in her fur robe, and Mr. Sansoucy gave up in
despair;—and so they glided on again, talking and
laughing merrily.
The ride was, however, not to end without an incident.
The sleigh had reached a hill scarcely half a mile from
the city, and had commenced the rapid descent, when an
exclamation from Aurelia, to whom Mr. Sansoucy was
talking, caused that gentleman to suddenly turn his head,
and hold back his reins vigorously.
It was barely time to prevent the sleigh from running
over a woman, who had been walking in the middle of
the road, and who had been concealed from them by the
interposition of the steep hill.
The knee of one of the horses brushed her violently:
and starting back suddenly, she slipped upon the hard
road, and fell.
Nothing but the full exertion of his whole strength
enabled Mr. Sansoucy to retain the horses in their places;
but half resting on their vigorous haunches, they stopped,
trembling, and with necks curved into bows by the powerful
tension of the reins.
The woman, who was miserably clad, and had evidently
As she did so, she looked intently at Mr. Sansoucy, and
seemed to be startled and frightened.
“I hope you are not hurt—I was careless,” he said,
“the hill prevented me from seeing you.”
The woman continued to gaze at him, with the same
startled look, but said nothing.
“Are you hurt?” repeated Mr. Sansoucy, kindly.
She shook her head; but continued to stare at him.
“I am very glad,” he said, “it was unpardonable in me
to be so careless. You look poor, my good woman—
take this to make you forget my carelessness.”
And Mr. Sansoucy extended a piece of money toward
her; and threw it to her feet.
The woman did not take it up; but stared still at him:
then opening her lips, which were cracked with cold, she
said, with a foreign accent.
“Are you a son of Mr. Sansoucy of Sunnyside?”
“Yes,” he said, wonderingly, “do you know my father?”
An expression of wretchedness passed over the woman's
face; and she muttered:
“I thought so, I thought so! It would have been a
just punishment, if the horses had killed me!”
Mr. Sansoucy caught the last portion of the sentence,
and said:
“If they had killed you!”
“Yes,” said the woman, “I deserve it. It is only
another evidence of the mercy of heaven!”
The expression of Mr. Sansoucy's face, indicated such
at once that she was speaking in riddles.
She looked at Aurelia and the children for a moment—
hesitated—then shook her head: and fixing her eyes on
Mr. Sansoucy's face again: said in the same low tone,
which she had employed throughout the conversation:
“Do you live in the city?”
“Yes,” he said, unable to say more.
“Where?” asked the woman.
Mr. Sansoucy unconsciously took a card from his pocket.
“Yes,” said the woman, “give it to me. I can read
well enough, though you may not think it from my appearance.
I looked better once.”
And extending her hand, she took the card, and placed
it in her ragged bosom.
“Drive on!” she said, “do not mind me: I am used
to walking.”
It was some moments before Mr. Sansoucy could collect
self-possession enough to offer to make room for the woman
in his sleigh. But she refused again; and taking no
notice of the coin, covered her head with an old blanket,
and took her way onward in silence toward the city.
Mr. Sansoucy gazed after her, shook his head in a way
which indicated a doubt of the woman's sanity, and then
giving the word to his horses, flew onward past the woman,
who was soon shut out from his view.
We need not chronicle the world of conjectures which
were made, and discussed, and dropped, by Mr. Sansoucy
and his companion. The insanity view, however, gained
the preëminence, and Aurelia shook her head pityingly:
“The author who writes your adventures would scarcely
be able to explain this meeting,” she said, smiling, “it is
so strange.”
“We shall see,” was Mr. Sansoucy's reply.
And the sleigh darting into the street, fled onward, gaily
ringing as it went, and soon landed Miss Aurelia and the
children at their home.
3. CHAPTER III.
RETURNS TO SOME OLD FRIENDS.
For two days, Mr. Sansoucy remained almost wholly
in his office; with a dubious sort of expectation, that the
strange woman he had encountered, would make her
appearance, and solve the mystery which enveloped her.
She did not come; and on the third morning, Mr. Sansoucy's
patience gave way, and he said aloud, “Well, so
my adventure ends—this woman was simply a crazy woman;
and I am crazy to expect anything. Still I had a
right to be surprised. To know that our estate is called
Sunnyside!—to know me from my likeness to my father
decidedly there are more things in heaven and earth than
are dreamed of in ordinary philosophy!”
And having come to this consolatory conclusion, the
journalist applied himself to his daily task, and having accomplished
it—proceeded to dine—after which he lit his
cigar, took up a novel—editors seldom read newspapers
for amusement—and set about enjoying himself.
The novel, which was one of Monsieur Dumas', entertained
him for a time; but soon he seemed to grow weary
of it.
“Mordious! sanydieu! parbleu!” observed Mr. Sansoucy,
as he laid it down, “what a genius for oaths, has
Monsieur D'Artagnan, and his friend Porthos! They
are delineated with immense genius and spirit—that is
granted: but why do they swear so! `Our army swore
terribly in Flanders, it is true—but it's a bad precedent—
and so my criticism ends. I wonder if that mysterious
woman was not, after all, a phantom—whether I did not
dream the whole affair, including the sleigh ride! No—
here is the proof!”
And with a guilty look, Mr. Sansoucy drew from the
breast pocket of his coat, one of the white balls of the
comfort, which had been torn off in the scene upon the
bridge—found by him in the bottom of the sleigh—and
since preserved with a care which said all that was
necessary, as to the state of this gentleman's feelings.
We believe it is conceded, that when an intelligent
man is guilty of a thing of this sort, he is in a very dangerous
condition.
The ball was soon restored to its pocket again, a ceremony
not very interesting, having been performed with
its assistance;—and then Mr. Sansoucy stretched himself,
and passing, in thought, from the worsted ball to its
mistress—from its mistress to the ball of another character—thence
to the dress she had worn—and thence again
to the recipient of the dress—Mr. Sansoucy, we say, came
subject of his little friend, Ellie.
The result of these reflections was, that fifteen minutes
afterwards, the journalist rose, put on his overcoat, and
sallied forth with the intention of paying Ellie and Joe
Lacklitter a visit.
Let us leave the merry and happy personages, to whose
laughter we have just listened—Miss Aurelia, aiming at
perfecting herself in the execution of the May day song—
the old gentleman and lady listening to her—and Bel and
Lizzie discussing with bright, sparkling eyes, their brilliant,
joyous, fairylike excursion—let us leave these personages,
to whom, however, we shall soon return, and go
with Mr. Sansoucy to the old house in the opposite
quarter of the city, whose occupants we have lost sight of
for some time.
Joe Lacklitter seems to have felt the breath of the
coming spring, and has become almost well again. He
no longer totters about, and sits moping in the chimney
corner, and sighs. He is growing strong, and with every
day, appears to regain more and more of his old buoyancy
and good humor. This cheerfulness is not gained by himself,
only as the spring comes on—Ellie, too, becomes
happier; and when she raises her frank, tender eyes to
his face, with that look of gentleness and goodness, which
is her crowning charm, and chief beauty, the countenance
of the child is lovely, for its sweetness and holiness of
deep affection.
When we again enter the humble room in which the
poor newsman and his children have harbored themselves
and whither we gladly go again—the countenance of
Ellie, as she sits by the small fire, reading to her uncle,
is a sight which might make a misanthrope forget his
bitterness, and smile. The child's soft brown hair has
escaped from the old ribbon with which she often binds
it, and falls in waving curls around her beautiful and
tender face; her eyes are soft and full of sweetness: her
parted lips smile with that gentle ingenuous expression,
which is the loveliest of all human looks, in man, or
woman, or child.
Ellie sits reading for some time: and then closing her
book, goes and gets her small brush, and crosses over to
Charley, who seems, from his rapt expression to be inventing
a fairy tale; and taking the curly head in her
arms, reduces the bunchy mass to a smooth and glossy
appearance, marking thus a great improvement in the
youthful poet's looks. Ellie stands still for a moment,
admiring the result of her skill, and then is going to some
work she has been doing, when she hears a step upon the
stairs.
She knows that step among a thousand, and with a
happy look, hastens toward the door.
With the passing days and weeks, an affection for him
has grown up in her heart, only second to her love for
her uncle and Charley. By some strange process, she
seems to anticipate all he says, to read his very thoughts,
to identify herself with him, and comprehend all he says,
and does, and even thinks, as by the working of a perfect
and all-embracing sympathy, binding the natures of the
heart, sending the blood at once through two separate
beings.
She has sat for hours, thinking of him, and of his kindness;
and her eyes have filled with warm, happy tears,
as she has thought of all his goodness to herself and her
uncle. At such times he has seemed to her better than
all the whole world; and the world, blind and foolish,
and ignorant of its duty, not to rise up in one mass, and
honor him, and select him for their king! Then Ellie,
when her thoughts brought her to this point, would smile,
and rise from her seat, and say, “How silly I am!” But
again her heart would whisper, “It is not more than he
deserves, he is so good and kind,”—and she would stoutly
return to her previous opinion, that the whole wide world
contained no second man his equal! Surely to excite
such tenderness, and gratitude, and admiration in the
heart of a pure child, is better worth our while, than to
achieve many triumphs of the most distinguished description.
This is the feeling of the child toward the man, and
now with an instinct of affection, stronger than the Arab's
hatred-instinct, which scents in the horizon the approach
of his enemy, Ellie knows perfectly well when Mr. Sansoucy
is coming.
That is his step upon the stairs, and opening the door
before he has touched the knob, she says, timidly, but
confidingly:
“I knew it was you, sir,”
Her smile illuminates the whole apartment, and Mr.
hand.
“Why, Joe,” he says: “it seems to me that this
young woman is going to fly away, she looks so light and
gay.”
“Oh, uncle's getting well, and you have come—that
makes me glad, sir,” says Ellie.
“There! she's floored us with a double compliment,
Joe,” says Mr. Sansoucy, sitting down: “why, you are
nearly well.”
“Yes, indeed, I am, sir, and I know who done a good
part by me. I never will forget your kindness, sir—I
needn't tell you that.”
“Bother!”
“I'll pay back all the money you give me, soon,” said
Joe: “I feel like I could do anything now.”
“You shall take your time,” says Mr. Sansoucy: “say
a dollar a-year, for the next twenty years. But you may
drop that subject—here's some more.”
“Oh, no sir!” says Ellie, with glad pride in her face,
and holding back Mr. Sansoucy's arm, with a happy
little look: “we won't want any more, please, sir.”
“What do you mean?”
“I got the pay for my work yesterday.”
“Your work?”
“Yes, sir—from Mrs. Brown.
“Did you?”
“Yes, sir—see, here it is—a whole week's work.”
Mr. Sansoucy looked at the coin, and says:
“A whole week's work! Work a week for that?”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“How many hours a day?”
“I don't know, sir—but from breakfast time to dinner
and supper—and a little at night.”
Mr. Sansoucy repeats, “a little at night—that is
all day!”
“Yes, sir.”
“And for this! Why, Ellie, I spend that much in
cigars in a single morning—and here you are, working
away your small fingers, and putting out your young eyes,
for—really,” said Mr. Sansoucy, breaking off suddenly,
“the world is a miserable humbug, and I despise it, root
and branch!”
Having stated his conviction upon this point, Mr. Sansoucy
drew from his pocket a bundle, and said:
“Here's something I purchased on the way;—do you
know how to make chocolate, Ellie?”
“No, sir—I'm afraid—”
“Well, I 'll show you. What a pity we have n't here a
friend of mine, of the name of Mr. Matthews, who makes
it to perfection. Every man, my child,” says Mr. Sansoucy,
with a philosophical air, “has his particular genius.
I knew a distinguished lawyer once, whose genius was
cutting out coats, cutting off hair, and pulling teeth.
Another of my friends has a genius which enables him to
discuss the abstrusest educational questions without a
single flower of rhetoric, question-begging appellative, or
poetical radiation—and my own genius I consider the
ability to write an editorial without selecting the subject,
or thinking while I write. This causes you to open your
am trifling: but send that young man there for some
milk, and we 'll have some chocolate immediately.”
Ellie would have gone herself, but Mr. Sansoucy declared
that he would have Charley go; and so Charley
went, twisting his head over his shoulder to the last, to
gaze at Mr. Sansoucy, whom he seemed to regard as a
strange wild animal, exhibited for that occasion only.
In half an hour the chocolate was done, and Mr. Sansoucy
having produced some crackers from the other
pocket, the whole company regaled themselves in the most
friendly way imaginable.
4. CHAPTER IV.
RECOUNTS THE MANIA OF MONSIEUR GUILLEMOT'S FRIEND,
ANGELIQUE.
During the process of drinking the chocolate, to which
ceremony Mr. Sansoucy applied himself with the gusto of
a confirmed lover of that beverage, the journalist enquired
fully into Joe's prospects—promised to procure him a
better situation than any he had yet occupied, and also to
see to the welfare of the children. He need not thank
him, he added, as Joe began to speak: it was one of his
whims to help him and them—and he would follow his
whim.
By the time this was said the chocolate was finished, and
Mr. Sansoucy rose to take his departure.
Ellie brought his hat, and gave it to him with her
sweet, timid look; and wrapping his cloak around him,
Mr. Sansoucy, with his head down, stepped upon the
landing.
He found himself suddenly thrown up against the body
of an individual who was descending; and this individual
uttered the expression, “sacre!”—the latter portion being
spoken as though the word was spelled with a multiplicity
of r's.
“Why, it 's Guillemot!” said Mr. Sansoucy. “How
do you do, Monsieur Guillemot? I have not seen you
since—since that unhappy affair at the gallery.”
And the speaker's face clouded with an expression of
sadness as he thought of his friend.
“Mistare Sansoueí! Aha!” said the Frenchman, with
his polite grimace; “I am charm to see you, Mossieu!”
“And I as pleased to see you, Monsieur Guillemot.”
The Frenchman shook his head.
“People was please once, Mossieu!” he said.
“Once?”
“When Guillemot was flourish, Mossieu Sansoucí.
Tees not so now. Poor Guillemot is bank-a-root. Zey
no pay, Mossieu—zey no pay poor Guillemot; he is
bank-a-root!”
And having communicated this information with the
most delightful good humor and satisfaction, Monsieur
Guillemot shrugged his shoulders, turned out his hands,
raised his eyebrows, and added—
“Tees true—tees very true!”
Sansoucy looked at him with a smile.
“Judging from your dress, Monsieur Guillemot,” he
said, “I should think, that instead of being bankrupt, you
had just come into your property.”
Monsieur Guillemot, in fact, was clad with great elegance,
and the frill of his shirt bosom seemed alone able
to support his chin.
Ah! non, non!” he said, however, with a modest air,
“'tis notting, mon cher ami—'tis only a leetle toilette I
make to enterprise one dame.”
“A lady?”
“Ah, oui—one lady. You will come see her, Mossieu,
mon ami—you shall give me opinion she shall see what
distinguish friend I 'ave.”
“Make a call with you?”
“I only pass—seulement.”
“Certainly, I'll go then.”
And very much amused, Mr. Sansoucy made a farewell
sign to Joe Lacklitter and Ellie, who had listened to this
conversation, and then followed Monsieur Guillemot.
He was not destined to leave the house, however, without
having his attention called to an additional personage.
This personage was a lady clad in a brown dress, and
well wrapped up, who, with her veil down, and an air of
abstraction, ascended the stairs as the two men came
down.
The polite Frenchman leaped aside, making a profusion
of bows,—indeed, we are not quite sure that Monsienr
Guillemot did not seriously contemplate mounting the
railing, or getting upon the ledge outside, or performing
some other act, indicative of an extreme desire to permit
he simply drew to one side, as closely as possible:
and thus in the bent position of his body the lady passed
as it were beneath his chin, and disappeared at the turn
of the staircase.
“It seems that some one here has a lady friend,” he
said, as they again descended.
Ah, oui, Mossieu! I see her often,” was Guillemot's
reply.
“Her face?”
“Non, Mossieu—her veil always cover it.”
“Very well, my dear friend—but what have we here,”
said Mr. Sansoucy, stooping and raising from the threshold
of the outer door, upon which it had dropped, a
printed paper: this must have fallen from the unknown
lady's reticule: why it's a tract.”
And looking for the title he read the words: “Faith,
Hope, Charity.”
He remained silent for a moment, and then shaking his
head, muttered:
“I doubt the utility of tracts alone, when those for
whom they are intended suffer for want of bread. This
lady, doubtless, is benevolent—perhaps in her high sphere,
cannot realize the wants of the poor: for I discerned a
very delicate and costly perfume as she passed—so, doubtless
she is rich. Nevertheless let me not judge. I'll keep
the tract: come, my dear Monsieur Guillemot.”
And putting the paper in his pocket, Mr. Sansoucy
took his companion's arm, and they proceeded toward
the abode of Monsieur Guillemot's lady friend. They
furnished the subject of their conversation.
Like all Frenchmen, Monsieur Guillemot speedily put
his friend in possession of his whole love affair. “One
dame,” was the sister of a shopkeeper not far from the
house they issued from, and this dame was well known in
the neighborhood, as the possessor of a very pretty piece
of property which brought her in a desirable income.
The dame was in addition to this, possessed of the various
charms of a good-humored face, a figure inclined to
embonpoint, and the ripe age of forty. She had been long
looking for a husband it seemed, exactly to her taste: but
had failed nevertheless to find her beau ideal. Angelique
—it was Monsieur Guillemot's poetical designation of
her—Angelique, it seemed, desired ardently to possess a
husband of the first elegance and breeding—a fine gentleman
in a word; and once her ambition had reached even
as high as a foreign count. But this hope seemed difficult
of realization—and after falling successively from count to
viscount and baron—and so down to the lowest possible
order of nobility, a baronet—she had made up her mind
to accept even a poor gentleman, if he were elegant, and
would carry her from the sphere which could not appreciate
the delicate and poetical nature of her mental organization.
Madame Angelique, it further appeared, had at
one time encouraged the advances of Captain Schminky,
in consideration of his well-to-do condition in the world:
and even still she regarded the grocer with an amount of
favor which caused his rival, it was evident, no small
uneasiness. Captain Schminky would, doubtless, have
generally; but just as she was on the point of yielding to the
dictates of prudence, and worldly wisdom, Monsieur Guillemot
had appeared, with all his graces, and revived once
more in her heart that passion for the elegant and recherche
which was her weakness. Monsieur Guillemot's origin on
a small estate in Gascony gave him the right to the title
of chevalier; and as soon as Madame Angelique heard
the word, her heart began to beat, her prudential considerations
to disappear; and at the moment when Monsieur
Guillemot met his friend, Mr. Sansoucy, the rivals
were balanced almost equally in those imaginary scales in
which were weighed the desirabilities of Madam's suitors.
It was Madam Angelique that Monsieur Guillemot was
destined to see for a moment in passing: and he felt not
a little satisfaction in showing the mistress of his heart
what a fine looking gentleman he called his friend.
He was modestly suggesting that perhaps Mr. Sansoucy's
designation of him as “Monsieur Guillemot, my
friend,” would aid his prospects when they arrived at the
abode of Madam Angelique.
5. CHAPTER V.
MADAME ANGELIQUE'S CONTRIBUTION TO THE FAIR.
“Angelique” was the sister of the low browed gentleman
who had given Ellie one tenth of the value of her
baby's dress, in exchange for that garment.
He was standing behind his counter now; and no
doubt, the worthy merchant expected his visitors to
purchase something in exchange for the pleasure they
experienced in entering his shop. If this were his expectation,
however, he was disappointed; for Monsieur
Guillemot passed through the shop with the ease of a
man who had frequently done so before, and followed by
Mr. Sansoucy, at whom the proprietor scowled, coarsely,
as indeed he did also at the Frenchman, made his way
into the room just back of the shop.
Angelique was being entertained by Captain Schminky,
and was just the lady described by Monsieur Guillemot.
“Ah, my dear Madam—and mon cher Capitaine,” said
Guillemot, with a lively air, “charm to see you. Permit,
Madam, that I present Monsieur mon ami—Mistâre Sansoucì.”
The individuals bowed: Mr. Sansoucy, with great
politeness, which was very sincere—madam, with a little
flutter, such as she considered proper, under the circumstances.
As for Captain Schminky, he seemed to be paralyzed
by the appearance of Monsieur Guillemot, and sat with
his mouth open, in utter bewilderment.
“If it please the beautiful Angelique,” said Monsieur
Guillemot, imprinting a gallant kiss upon the lady's
chubby fingers, “I will now take the commission of
Madam.”
“Oh, yes, Monsher Gillymore,” said the lady, rising
with the assistance of a smelling bottle and a fan, “I will
bring it.”
And with a languishing look, she crossed the small
room, and issued forth into the shop. As she did so, Mr.
Sansoucy discovered that he had dropped his gloves; and
remembering that he had left them on the chair he had
occupied in Joe Lacklitter's room, told Monsieur Guillemot
to await his return, and sallied forth to recover
them.
He had scarcely left the shop, when a woman came in,
and after standing for a moment, looking around her,
caught sight of Captain Schminky, through the open door
of the inner room. This woman was wretchedly clad,
wore, for sole wrapping, an old tattered blanket, and her
face was cut and cracked by the bitter wind.
It was the same woman who had been nearly run over
by Mr. Sansoucy, three days before.
She stood for a moment, looking at Captain Schminky,
with eyes which seemed to dart flames of rage: and then,
striding into the back room, planted herself erect before
him, and threw back the tattered bonnet which had concealed
her face.
No sooner had Captain Schminky caught sight of her
countenance—no sooner had he found those eyes, which
seemed to be well known to him, fixed upon his face,—
than, rising with a leap, he seized his hat, rushed by the
woman, who stood with folded arms, looking down on
him—and fled ignominiously from the shop.
The woman looked after him, a moment; gazed coldly
at Monsieur Guillemot, who directed, nevertheless, toward
her, one of his most enchanting smiles; and then with a
stare of defiance and rage at Madam Angelique, which
as she had entered it.
Monsieur Guillemot had scarcely time to observe, that
in all his various travels, he had seen many curious and
astounding “tableaux,” but never anything quite equal
to that; and Madam Angelique had said nothing at all,
when Mr. Sansoucy made his appearance, with the gloves
in his hand. Ellie had caught sight of them, ten minutes
after his departure—had picked them up, quickly—and
thinking Mr. Sansoucy had not gone far, hastened after
him, her brown hair uncovered, and the wind making her
shiver. He had met her half way, taken the gloves, with
a kind speech, which would have rewarded Ellie for a
thousand times as much trouble, and so returned to the
shop just in time to be too late.
The forgetfulness of Mr. Sansoucy in leaving his gloves,
had much to do with the further progress of this history.
When he entered the shop again, as we have said, Monsieur
Guillemot was expressing his philosophical astonishment
at the incident which had just occurred. But, upon
the entrance of his friend, he paused. Having studied
profoundly the character of Angelique, with the view of
making her Madam Guillemot, he had not failed to perceive
that one of the weak points of the angelic being was
a horror for whatever appeared coarse, abrupt, and vulgar.
He was just about to enter upon a description of the
late event, when this thought occurred to him—but he
promptly restrained himself; and was rewarded by Angelique
with a smile, which he understood perfectly.
Madam Angelique did not give Mr. Sansoucy time to
and haste in walking away: she immediately introduced
the subject of the Fair, for the benefit of the poor, to
which Monsieur Guillemot was about to take a contribution
on the part of the lady.
“Monsher Gillymore is very obliging,” said the lady,
in a flutter, and waving her fan, which really did seem
useless in the then state of the atmosphere; but perhaps
it was a habit she could not break herself of, “I am sure I
am very much obliged to him.”
“The words are pearls: are they not diamonds!” said
Monsieur Guillemot, enthusiastically.
“Oh, go away, you flattering creature!”
“Not so—not so, beautiful Angelique, I never flatter.”
“Monsher Gillymore, you men are terrible creatures,
and you do not make any allowances for the nervous and
susceptible”—
“No allowance!” cried Monsieur Guillemot, “but I
cannot stay to refute this so terreeble charge. Monsieur,
mon ami, grows impatient.”
And disregarding Sansoucy's polite denial of this imputation,
Monsieur Guillemot held out his hand for the
package.
“What is here?” he asked, prying curiously at the
bundle.
“Oh, nothing, nothing!” said the lady, smiling.
“Bon!” said Monsieur Guillemot, “I shall not be
fatigue.”
And with his hand upon his heart, he made the lady the
lowest and most splendid bow.
“Oh, Monsieur Guillemot, my dearest friend, my worthy
teacher, and friend,” said Sansoucy, suppressing his
laughter, “you are really the most elegant man I have
ever known. The woman who is so fortunate as to secure
you, my dear friend, will possess one of the most amiable
and courteous gentlemen I have ever known.”
And having made this speech, which was perfectly sincere,
Mr. Sansoucy made a low bow upon his own part,
and they issued forth.
“I think that I am marry already,” said Monsieur Guillemot,
at the summit of felicity.
“A good-humored and pleasing lady,” said Sansoucy.
“Is she not?” cried Monsieur Guillemot, enthusiastically,
“I rejoice, I mount my wings, I fly, Mossieu, mon ami!”
And with the gayety of a boy, who has a holiday granted
to him, Monsieur Guillemot hastened onward by the side
of his friend, smiling and joyful. Turning, however, he
saw an expression upon Mr. Sansoucy's face, which was
rather satirical; and this caused Monsieur Guillemot to
suddenly become grave.
“Ah, Mossieu, mon ami,” he said, “you do me ver great
anjoosteese. It is true I visit this lady first from what you
call mercenary motive: but that is pass. She is good, she
is jolie, she is parfaitement, devoted to poor Guillemot—
'tis a good dame, a ver honest pèrsonàge—she will make
good wife for Guillemot, who grow old—who is bank-a-root,
mon ami: but who possesses still quite enough de
l'argent to live. I want wife, Mossien, mon ami—she will
make good wife: ver good wife.”
“I don't doubt it, my dear friend,” said Sansoucy,
men ask only a cheerful and affectionate companion—
faith! any man might be satisfied with that, I think—if I
forget this—pardon me. You will have such a wife—for
you will get Madam Angelique without doubt.”
“Sans doute! you say sans doute, then it is a fact
accomplished!”
And Monsieur Guillemot, with all the gayety of a boy,
hastened on, passing from one hand to the other the
package delivered to him for deposite at the fair by the
mistress of his heart.
That package contained, among other things, the elegant
child's dress, and lace cap, brought to the shop and sold
in her necessity, by Ellie.
6. CHAPTER VI.
HOW THE LADY HAD AN INTERVIEW WITH LUCIA.
Ellie stood for some moments following Mr. Sansoucy
with her eyes, which a glad, happy light made beautiful
and touching;—and then as he disappeared with Monsieur
Guillemot, slowly retraced her steps up the old stair-case,
murmuring “How kindly he smiled on me!”
The lady we have seen ascend as Mr. Sansoucy came
down, was seated in the room of Joe Lacklitter; and
Ellie, indeed, had left her with some abruptness, upon
finding the missing gloves.
As she entered, now, the lady looked at her with a
smile, and said kindly:
“You seem to be very eager to save your friend
trouble!”
“Oh, yes, ma'am.”
“You are?”
“Yes, indeed, ma'am—I would do anything in the
world I could, for him.”
“Is he kind?”
“Oh, so good and kind!”
And as if her whole heart had spoken in these words,
Ellie remained silent.
The lady's face showed how much she was pleased by
the simplicity and sincerity of the child's tone, and she
said:
“You have a warm, true heart, Ellie; and I think
your uncle is very fortunate to have so good a little
daughter. Now I want to tell you why I came. Here
are some things I wish you to work for me. I think your
patterns are more graceful than any I find in the stores,
and I want you to make this collar after your own fancy.”
Ellie took it with a proud little look, and said indeed
she would try to do it as well as she possibly could.
“I know that will be well,” said the lady, “for your
taste in these things is really extraordinary, Ellie. I can
scarcely understand how you ever acquired it.”
“Mother taught me, ma'am,” said Ellie; “she worked
beautiful things.”
“Your mother?”
“Yes, ma'am—she's dead, you know: but she was
good, and she's gone to heaven.”
The lady again listened with evident pleasure to the
Then she said:
“Do you expect to see your mother again, Ellie?”
“Yes, ma'am—oh, yes! if I am good, and do my
duty.”
The answer concluded the subject; and when the lady
spoke again it was on the matter which had brought her:
and this being dispatched, she entered into conversation
with Joe as to his present and prospective condition.
Uncle Joe launched forth into the subject with rude
eloquence, and said that he had had a hard time of it
during the winter, but hoped to make up for every thing
in the spring. He would have had a hard time, that is,
he said, if it had not been for Ellie and Mr. Sansoucy:—
and then Uncle Joe commenced and related in all their
detail the tender solicitude of the child for him—her
struggles, labors, suffering—every thing. Like Othello,
Uncle Joe ran through the events of the winter “even to
the present hour”—and the picture thus drawn of the
child's disinterested affection and devotion, evidently
touched, and produced a deep effect upon the lady.
She gazed at the child so kindly and lovingly that
Ellie's head sank, and her eyes filled with tears of childish
pride, and love, and gratitude.
“Here are some tracts, Ellie,” said the lady, with a
slight color in her cheek; “I thought you would like to
have them:—but I think I should learn from you, instead
of you from me.”
And rising, the lady asked if the little organ-girl were
in her room.
“Yes, ma'am, I think she is,” replied Ellie, sadly; “I saw
her this morning, and she don't seem very well. Will
you go and see her, ma'am?”
“Oh! yes—I came to see her, too!”
And bidding Uncle Joe farewell, the lady went out
and proceeded to Lucia's room.
Lucia was sitting by a small fire which Ellie had made
for her from a portion of her own wood; and when the
lady entered, was looking into the fire with a faint, wistful
smile, so deep in its sadness, yet so trusting and submissive,
that it made her thin, white countenance more
beautiful than words can describe. Always of fair and
tender beauty, Lucia's loveliness had been sublimated by
these trying dispensations which she had undergone; and
now she seemed, with her pale, wistful face, and large,
sad eyes, more like a blessed inhabitant of the other world,
than an actual child of flesh and blood, weak and unarmed
against the cold blasts of poverty and want.
Since we last saw her, when, sitting, bent down, on the
steps, she sighed “aunt Phillis, Oh! aunt Phillis!—why
can't I go with you!”—a great change has come over the
little organ-girl; and she seems now to have detached her
thoughts almost entirely from earth, and to have entered
upon an existence, unclogged by worldly cares and wants,
unaffected by the coldest blasts of the bitter winter storm.
In that serene region heaven itself seems to have opened
upon her: and with earth no longer in her vision, her
thoughts appear to have mounted to the pure empyrean
of perfect and unchangeable love: where the sunshine of
heaven gilds the faces of the great multitude of all climes
the light of an eternal dawn.
The expression of the child, as she bends down thus,
her dark hair half veiling her thin white cheek, and falling
on the pages of the book she has been reading, is so
striking, that the lady pauses for a moment on the
threshold, and looks at her, motionless, and in silence.
She says, at last, in her kind voice, “Lucia!”—and
the child turns, and recognizes her, and with a faint
color in her cheeks, rises to her feet, returns the smile,
and murmurs her thanks for the visit.
“Oh, no, Lucia, you need not thank me,” says the
lady, taking her thin hand, and gazing with tender pity
into the sad, smiling face: “you need not thank me.
But I am sorry to see you looking so pale and thin.”
“I don't feel badly, ma'am,” says Lucia; “and Ellie
has made me a good fire.”
“Ellie?”
“Yes, ma'am—she is very kind: and I am afraid makes
herself uncomfortable to help me.”
“She's a good child: but you have had some dinner,
Lucia?”
“Yes, ma'am, Ellie gave me some.”
And a faint tinge of shame, which has come into her
cheek, glows deeper, and more apparent. The singular
pride of the poor child is wounded, and she returns thus
to earth, as it were, and blushes at her own helplessness
and dependence.
“You shall not depend upon Ellie,” the lady says:
“you shall depend on me—I will assist you—”
“Oh, no, no, ma'am,” murmurs Lucia: “I couldn't—
I don't think I could—accept—”
“But you must: you have no friends who—”
“Oh, yes, ma'am.”
And the child's face is covered with blushes.
“You have a friend besides Ellie? What is his
name?”
Lucia cannot utter the name of Sam, and only bends
down, blushing. All the long, weary time from the death
of Aunt Phillis, Wide-Awake has kept near her, visiting
her whenever he could, and supplying her wants, without
knowing what a deep wound to the child's pride, everything
he supplied caused her. The tenderness toward
him, which has grown up in her heart, gradually has
made this all the more trying: and the bitterest regret
that Lucia has felt, has been the necessity of this dependence.
When the lady, therefore, asks what other friend
she has, the child's face colors deeply, and the faint murmured
reply is unintelligible.
The lady gazes at her face a moment with profound
pity—and then asks her if she cannot do some sewing.
Lucia says that Ellie has given her some common work
to do from her own, and she has not even been able to
perform this. Her life, so wandering and adverse, has
not enabled her to learn; and the money given to her by
Ellie, has been simple charity.
The lady sighs, as she listens to the faltering accents,
and says that then she will try to procure something else
for her: meanwhile she must accept what she gives her.
“Oh, no, no, ma'am!” Lucia says, drawing back; “I
know, and I am afraid it's wicked; but, indeed, indeed, I
cannot.”
The lady's head sinks, and she looks at the child with
a wistful expression, which is hard to read.
“Well, Lucia,” she says: “I can understand your
pride—but I must assist you. Indeed I must—until you
are able to assist yourself. I will send you something,
this very morning. It is our duty, and I think it a very
great privilege—that is, I begin to think it.”
And with a slight tremor in her voice, the lady bids
the child good-bye, and turns toward the door.
As she does so, Wide-Awake comes in.
7. CHAPTER VII.
HOW WIDE-AWAKE AND LUCIA ARRANGED THEIR PLANS.
Wide-Awake did not look as merry and joyous as
usual:—his hat was not so much upon the side of his
head: his hands were not so deeply sunken in his
pockets.
When Wide-Awake presented this appearance, his
friends were accustomed to declare that he was under a
cloud; and it really did seem upon the present occasion,
as if the state of feeling indicated by this figurative expression,
existed in the case of the personage in question.
Wide-Awake's first look and word was for Lucia; but
recognition of her presence.
The lady returned his salute, but did not wait for him
to speak. She wrapped herself again in her robe, lowered
her veil, and with a kind word to Lucia, went out and
descended the stairs.
“Who's that, Lucia?” said Wide-Awake, looking
after her.
“A good lady, who has been to see me two or three
times, Sam,” said Lucia.
“I knew she was good!” said Wide-Awake, with a
melancholy sort of humor; “I knew she was, d'rectly I
saw her face.”
“Indeed, she is.”
“Is she kind to you?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Then I'm goin' to die for her—I am.
And having made this solemn promise, Wide-Awake
sat down, passed his hat through his fingers, and gazed
sadly and wistfully at Lucia, who had resumed her former
seat.
The sight of the child's thin and pale cheeks seemed to
fill Wide-Awake with the deepest gloom. His eyelids
drooped—his breast heaved with a sigh, and shaking his
head, he said, sorrowfully:
“Oh, Lucia! Lucia! you don't care nothin' for me!”
“Don't care!—oh, indeed, I do.”
And Lucia's sad face turns toward Wide-Awake, a
slight color in the pale cheeks, and a smile upon the lips,
than ever.
“No, you don't—oh, no, you don't!” he says; “if
you did, you'd do what I asked you.”
“What you asked me?”
“Eat more, and not be down-hearted, and laugh.”
Lucia smiles, and says:
“I am not down-hearted, Sam.”
“You aint!” cries Wide-Awake.
“No, indeed, I am not; I am very happy.”
And Lucia's eye falls upon the book she has been
reading.
“There! that explains all,” says her companion,
groaning. “Yes! you are happy, and you aint down-hearted—and
for why? Because you think you aint long
for this world!”
And Wide-Awake covers his eye and dashes away what
he pretends is a grain of dust.
“None of us know when we will die, Sam,” says Lucia,
softly.
“But you are thinkin' you won't last long.”
“I don't know, Sam.”
“Oh, Lucia!” he says, “what are you a-thinkin' and
talkin' in this way for! What are you a-dreamin' 'bout
the t'other world for! Aint this a mighty pretty world,
with all the flowers, and summer days, and goin' in the
country! Aint this a good place to live in!”
Lucia looks sadly through the window at the roofs
covered with snow, over which the chill winds are careering.
Wide-Awake answers her:
“Yes! you mean it's cold, and bitter, and miserable,”
he says, with a deep sigh; “you don't see anything to
look forward to! Oh, Lucia!”
And Wide-Awake actually sobs.
“Don't—don't, Sam!” she says, taking away the hand
he has covered his eyes with; “don't do that! you will
make me cry, too! Oh, don't—please don't, Sam!”
“Well, I wont! I'm a fool, and that's the whole of
it!”
“Oh, you are so kind, Sam!”
“I'm a rascal—I am! To come here a-makin' you
sorry and tired with my talk. But I wont do it agi'n—I
wont.”
And Wide-Awake assumes a cheerful and encouraging
look, and says:
“Really, Lucia—come to look at you, now, you're
happier lookin' than you've been for a week.”
“I feel very happy.”
“But the spring's comin', and you'll be happier. It's
so pretty!”
“Oh, beautiful,” Lucia says, with a warm light in her
eyes like a May morning; “beautiful, Sam! The
flowers, and warm days, and birds—Oh, how I love the
spring!”
The satisfaction—nay the deep delight—of Wide-Awake
as he listened to these words, seemed to change his whole
features. In a moment he was almost the same old
laughing, joyous Wide-Awake; full of ridiculous fancies,
and making every body laugh who approached him, with
his own contagious merriment.
“Hoora!” cried Wide-Awake, waving his cap, “aint
it good to hear you talkin' so, Lucia! I say it aint good—
oh, no!”
And Wide-Awake laughed in derision at his own positive
assurance of the fact.
“I'm glad you like to hear me talk so, Sam,” said
Lucia, smiling sweetly, “and indeed I feel it. The spring
is so lovely! Every thing seems to be young, and
pure, and tender—it seems as if there wasn't anything
bad in the whole world, and as if everybody loved each
other.”
“So it does!”
“I never could believe there was any cold, or want, or
unhappiness, when once the spring had come. The sunshine
seems to laugh, you know.”
“And the birds singing—!”
“It is very sweet.”
“And the flowers—the violets and them!”
“I love violets very much,” says Lucia, gently, and
smiling as she looked in Wide-Awake's enthusiastic face.
“That's enough,” he says, “I'll git the first of the
season for you, Lucia.”
“Oh, will you!”
“If I don't—well,” said Wide-Awake; “that ain't the
word to be said here—that ain't. But I'll do it!”
And Wide-Awake scowled at winter through the window
with a gaze of such defiance, that it was a wonder
all the snow did not melt and run away, and disappear
before it.
“You are very good and kind, Sam,” said Lucia, gently,
spend any more of your money for things for me.”
“My money?”
“Yes.”
“Lord help you,” said Wide-Awake, “What could I
do with it. You got to have it, or I'll chuck it to some
young villain at the theatre door. I never ken rest till
I'm dry as a bean. I've throwed quarters out into the
river often to see which went furthest:—money! when I
got it 'taint nothin'. I'm miserable, I am, till its spent!”
And Wide-Awake looked as if his pockets were wholly
empty. His harangue was only partly true; he had not
for a long time now sought any of his customary diversions—and
he had lived often on a crust for a whole day,
in order that Lucia might have something nice and delicate—such
as her poor appetite required. This and more
had been done by the honest Wide-Awake, and he had
made himself a perfect moving mountain of newspapers—
worked himself like a wood and iron machine—descended
even to a coal-carrier, to provide what Lucia needed.
The child knew it perfectly well; and this had caused her
to blush when the lady's question, brought Wide-Awake's
devotion to her mind: this knowledge now made her blush
again. Wide-Awake saw the blush and understood it.
“Now don't be talkin' 'bout that, Lucia,” he said,
“we'ere friends, and I ain't agoin' to desert a friend.
The idee of desertin' you seems—well, I dunno how it
seems: ridicklus'il, do, I spose.”
“Oh, Sam! you are too kind—and I am very, very
miserable to clog you in this way. Don't look so
don't send me anything else. I—I—do very well. Now
talk to me about the flowers again—the beautiful flowers.”
And with a sad sweet smile upon her face, Lucia
seemed to see the tender banks of violets, and wander
over sunny slopes and meadows, as a child should.
Wide-Awake's blood seemed to ebb and flow with hers:
and the happy expression of her countenance dissipated
all his gloom again.
“Talk about the flowers! I will that,” he said, “and
we'll see 'em, too.
“Oh, shall we?”
“Yes, we shell, Lucia—as I'm a livin' human bein'.
We'll go into the country—far away from this here place.
Didn't you hear that hymn, when Aunty Phillis died—I
see you that day—but you didn't see me; which ain't
seldom,” added Wide-Awake. “Don't you ricklect what
they sung: `Oh, come and will you go—will you go—
will you go!' seems to me that thing's been a runnin' in
my head ever sence.”
“And so has it in mine,” said Lucia with a far-away
look.
“It means heaven, I reckon,” said Wide-Awake, “but
I don't know nothin' 'bout heaven—I don't.”
“Oh, it's a place of perfect happiness,” replied Lucia;
“and God says that no one can even conceive such happiness!”
“That's strange!” said Wide-Awake, “can it be happier
'an a May mornin' in the fields?”
“Oh, yes.”
“What makes it so?”
“God's love,” said Lucia, softly.
Wide-Awake's mind was evidently engaged in the effort
to comprehend this reply, when Lucia said:
“If we love each other, and are kind, and obey God,
we will go to heaven, Sam. Jesus says he will prepare a
place for us.”
“It's mighty hard to be kind and lovin' in this wicked
and deceitful world,” said Wide-Awake, shaking his head,
“there's so much to make a feller grit his teeth—'specially
here in town. Heaven! heaven! it seems like a glory,
Lucia!” he said, with wide eyes; “but it's hard to see it
here.”
“Yes, but we may, by faith.”
“In the country I feel better, somehow—I do,” continued
Wide-Awake, “and the birds and flowers and
streams make me glad.”
“And me, too!”
“We're goin' there.”
“I shall be so glad.”
“Will you?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Won't we have a time—won't we have a glorious
time!” cried Wide-Awake carried away by the idea of
wandering with Lucia over flowery meadows, along the
banks of merry streams, “won't we be happy! Oh,
Lucia! what times we'll have:—I'm as happy as a lark!”
And Wide-Awake threw up his hat, and laughed aloud.
“How sweet the banks are when the sun shines,” said
Lucia, smiling dreamily, “I would like to be buried in a
side of the river—you know, Sam! It would be like
falling asleep, you know, in the happy sunshine. But
you don't like to think of this as I do. We will go over
there—won't we? Won't you take me?”
“Take you!” cried Wide-Awake, from whose face
the cloud passed as rapidly as a shadow of April. “Will
I take you! I'll hire a chariot and six horses, and drive
you myself.”
“Oh, that would not be half so nice,” said Lucia,
smiling, sweetly. “We will walk.”
“And I'll gather violets and roses, and make you a
wreath, Lucia—my hands are big and clumsy, but I can
do anything when I work for you! We'll spend all the
mornin's in the beautiful fields, and have a pic nic by the
stream, and then we'll come home in the warm, nice
evenin', singin'—singin'! You'll be singin', and I'll be
happy, Lucia—Oh, so happy with you!”
And Wide-Awake's rapt look fell on the blushing face
of Lucia, in which his picture of the happy May-day,
had conjured up as much delight as was visible in his
own.
It was a beautiful and touching spectacle—these two
children, thus forgetting the freezing wind, the dying fire,
the cramping city, the want and suffering, and grief of
their hard lot—to wander forth, in thought, over flowery
fields, and by murmuring streams—streams laughing and
limpid, with heaven over them, and made to mirror, in
their bright surface, the skies and flowers, and leaves, and
faces of the children, brighter than sky or flower! Strange
over a few embers, and yet rising from the low earth of
reality to the bright sunshine of the imagination! Thank
heaven, that the chillest winds of want and suffering cannot
tread out wholly what God placed in children—what
lives there, silently protesting against shameful oppression,
and neglect, and cruelty—whatever will remain thus
a silent but all-powerful protest against what arrays itself
against it!
It was not until the night had filled the poor chamber,
that the boy and the child parted.
Wide-Awake was going straight to lay out all his
money for Lucia, when he encountered, on the steps, Captain
Schminky's shop-boy, who, with a haughty expression,
looked about for some one—whose name was written
on a card he held.
Wide-Awake read the name over his shoulder, and
snatching from his hands the bundle, carried it straight to
Lucia—the shop-boy retreating immediately before the
dreadful Wide-Awake, who even dared to defy his
master.
It was the gift of the lady; and Wide-Awake was
more enthusiastic in his expressions of regard and admiration
for her, than even the child.
He prepared Lucia's supper from the abundant supply
of edibles: fixed everything with a wistful, smiling, submissive
air; and then, holding out his hand, said almost
timidly,
“Good-bye, Lucia—may I come again to-morrow.”
“Oh, Sam! how can you ask!”
“Do you like me any—do you think, Lucia?” said
Wide-Awake, bashfully.
“You are my kind, good friend,” said Lucia, sweetly,
giving him her thin hand, “indeed, I like you, very much,
Sam.”
That was enough—Wide-Awake wished to hear no
more—he made his exit, with a single leap; and nearly
knocking down the astounded clerk of Captain Schminky,
disappeared in the gathering darkness.
Lucia sat for a moment, looking from the door to the
present sent her by the lady; and then coloring, said, with
tears in her eyes:
“I am very grateful—and God is good to me—but, oh,
I am not happy!”
And again her head sank—her dark hair veiled her thin
cheeks, and sad eyes—and sitting thus silent, she seemed
to be thinking. In a moment her head rose, her face
assumed its habitual sad smile, and she murmured something
which was not audible.
Only the whistling of the wind was heard, careering
around and through the old house.
8. CHAPTER VIII.
TREATS OF MR. SANSOUCY AND HIS SENTIMENTS.
Two or three days after the events, or rather the scenes,
just related, any one who had chanced to enter Mr. Sansoucy's
office, would have found that gentleman leaning
and unhappy visage, a diminutive note, the enamelled
envelope of which lay by him on his table.
The note which was in the most elegant and delicate
handwriting—evidently that of a lady, ran thus:
“Mr. Sansoucy will very much oblige me by releasing
me from my promise to accompany him to the opera to-night.
I feel as if I should not be able to enjoy it.
This was the missive which had fallen into Mr. Sansoucy's
sanctum like a bombshell; and bursting, scattered
in every direction the entire materials of his morning's
editorial.
The idea of writing anything after receiving this note,
did not even so much as occur to Mr. Sansoucy. He
seized a journal—eliminated a foreign letter—and informing
the patrons of the Weekly Mammoth, that the letter in
question was from Vienna, which was certainly apparent
already, recommended them to read it, and reflect profoundly
upon it. Having thus fulfilled his obligation as a
journalist, he handed the package to the printer's boy in
waiting—advised him to take extreme care not to lose
it—and again applied himself to the consideration of Miss
Aurelia's note.
“The fact is,” said Mr. Sansoucy—he always commenced
his soliloquies in this determined and resolute
form, “the fact is, I am beginning to think that there is
going to be some trouble between myself and Aurelia.
Affairs have come to this point now, that I shake all over
when I hear the sound of the door bell rung by my own
way, I experience a wish to slay some dragon or chimera
dire, in her defence. I am accustomed to analyze sensations,
to test emotions; and I have come to the conclusion
that I am in, perhaps, the most dangerous state of mind
possible for a bachelor.
“If I was not,” continued Mr. Sansoucy, smiling faintly,
after a moment's silence, “I don't think I would attach
so much importance to this note. The opera to-night is
Norma, and I certainly had promised myself no inconsiderable
pleasure in exchanging ideas with my Aurelia on
the subject—and here I am disappointed. She will be
greatly obliged, if I will relieve her from her promise—
will she? Is it possible that Heartsease is going to see
her, and she knows it? Heartsease! a perfect fop! really
one of the most shallow men I have ever seen!” said Mr.
Sansoucy, indignantly. “I liked Heartsease once, but it
is of course impossible to respect a man who—well, who
makes love to a man's sweetheart!”
And having thus detected the real reason for his sudden
depreciation of Mr. Heartsease, Sansoucy burst out
laughing. The incident caused him to reflect deeply upon
the point which he had reached, and these reflections were
expressed, ere long, in words.
“Aurelia is changed,” he said, with a sigh; “very
much changed. Indeed, there seems to have taken place
in her own character, exactly that modification—I may
say, that depreciation—which has taken place in mine.
When we parted—”
Mr. Sansoucy sighed again, and forgetting that it was
his picture.
“When we parted,” he continued, “Aurelia and myself
were as ingenuous and simple as ever were two frank
country children. Since that time I have travelled, studied,
read, and `acquired new ideas'—that is to say, I have forgotten
that beautiful country simplicity, and made myself
a careless, laughing, Epicurean philosopher. I enjoy
everything—laugh at everything—believe in very little,
and am slowly becoming a pure dilletanté, a mere creature
of the sunshine, with not one particle of seriousness.
Everything is a jest—every word is an epigram, or tries
to be; what a miserable deterioration!”
And quite sincere in his self-criticism, Mr. Sansoucy's
brow clouded for a moment, and he sighed.
“Well, well,” he said, “at least I have some one to
keep me in countenance! The other actor in those simple
country scenes of that beautiful and honest country youth,
has grown quite as careless and worldly as myself I fear.
What a pity!—what a very great pity!” Ah, if I could
have found in Aurelia something of her former self—if I
could have found the former tenderness, the old time simplicity!
How perfect a corrective all this would have
been to my own unfortunate tendency! But she has
nothing of it—she is as light as thistle down. Puff! I
blow her away. Pity, pity!”
And Mr. Sansoucy sighed from the bottom of his heart.
“The ridiculous thing about all this is,” he murmured,
“that I quarrel with Heartsease, and think it very strange
that Aurelia does not look upon him in his proper light—
smile of careless good humor for everything, and admires,
of all the animal kingdom, the yellow butterfly of spring.
Why should she regard me, and frown on poor Heartsease?
It 's nothing but jealousy — miserable jealousy—which
makes me quarrel with her. She has a taste for the
Heartseases—they amuse her—their society suits her own
changed self—and I believe she is very much amused with
even my conversation for that very reason. Oh, if she
would only say to me, with her old voice and her old
looks, `Ernest, you have sadly changed—I retain my
freshness of heart and simplicity—you are a man of society,
and worse from the change.' If she would only say
that, I would go and offer her my heart, and love her
devotedly, like an honest gentleman, and dedicate my life
to her. What feeling towards her have I, in place of that
deep devotion—that tenderness, perfect and all-embracing,
which forms the earthly heaven, called true love? Why,
I have a sort of vague and undefined liking—a mere
preference for her society, because her jests amuse me, and
her beauty pleases me;—I go and pass the evening, and
allow her to flirt with me, and come home and light my
cigar, and shrug my shoulders, and say, `Yes, yes! a delightful
girl—very amusing—I must take care, or she 'll
catch me.' Catch me! a miserable phrase; and it shows
too correctly how I regard Aurelia. Aurelia to catch
Ernest—her old loving playmate! Oh, world of vanity,
and hollowness, and folly!”
And Mr. Sansoucy leaned back and sighed. He
remained for half an hour motionless and silent. Then
antique frame, and gazed at it long and in silence.
Never had the soft eyes beamed with more tender light;
never had the childish curls, rippling along the brow,
seemed to him to envelope a countenance more pure and
lovely. Another sigh, from the very bottom of his heart,
showed the depth of his feeling.
“Oh! she was frank and simple then—tender and
ingenuous,” he said, in a low voice; “my very being was
her own, inasmuch as my whole heart was. Let me
replace my treasure, and go and try to think she has not
changed entirely:—but I fear for my success. No, no!
I fear that Aurelia never will be the woman to make me
happy. She will wed some man of wealth and fashion—
smile kindly when we meet—and so it will be all arranged
in a way which the world will consider eminently proper:
—and I—but that is nothing. She cares as little for me
as I do for her—we have a little shallow good humor
remaining, and I suppose it will be understood that we
are to keep on this mask, hiding our uncongeniality—
rather our utter and identical change. Well, I'll play
the play—and be “undone,” maybe—and go away smiling
with the arrow in my heart. I'll even go to-night, and
laugh and tell her how much I regret her change of intention
in relation to the opera—and then, as I tell her so
plainly, with a careless laugh she'll think I don't care—
and so it will go on. Well, let it!”
With which vigorous permission to the ambiguous affair
to take its own course, Mr. Sansoucy put on his hat, and
wrapping his overcoat about him, went out.
Perhaps no man ever more completely misunderstood
his own feelings.
9. CHAPTER IX.
HOW HEARTSEASE COMPARES MISS AURELIA TO A PARROT.
When Mr. Sansoucy entered Mr. Ashton's parlor that
evening, the first person whom he saw was Mr. Heartsease
talking confidentially with Aurelia.
If there had been any doubt upon the subject of his
feelings for Aurelia before, the sensation experienced upon
seeing Mr. Heartsease might have enlightened him fully in
the matter.
He stood for a moment completely silent, with a face
filled with profoundest mortification; then greeting Aurelia
with much more courtesy and softness than usual, took
his seat, returning sadly the friendly words of Mr. and
Mrs. Ashton.
As for Heartsease, he held out his hand with that languid
grace which characterized him; and then gently
arranging one of his cravat bows, which had become
rumpled, and did not reach entirely to his shoulder, continued
his conversation with Miss Aurelia.
For a moment, it is true, Mr. Sansoucy had lost his
presence of mind, and had scarcely been able to suppress
the exhibition of his pain and displeasure on perceiving
the nature of the obstacle preventing Aurelia's visit to the
opera. But he had too often observed how much awkward
a single evening, by giving way to ill-humor: and so in
a few minutes, its customary expression of good-humored
carelessness had returned to his face; and with his back
turned to Miss Aurelia, he saluted smiling Misses Bel
and Lizzie, and began to converse pleasantly with the
elderly and cheerful Mrs. Ashton.
There are times when even the most good humored
young ladies are observed to pout—when they show
plainly that their stoutest armor is pierced—and when
they find it impossible to control the expression of their
feelings.
Aurelia though the look of surprise and mortification
upon the countenance of Mr. Sansoucy, very uncalled for,
and unjust, for she understood it perfectly:—and when he
turned away without taking any further notice of her, determined
to conceive for him the most ardent dislike. It
did not occur to her, for a single moment, that it would
be proper, under the circumstances, to enter into an immediate
flirtation with Mr. Heartsease, for the benefit of
Mr. Sansoucy—Aurelia had not lived sufficiently long
in the accomplished atmosphere of “society,” to be able
to enact, at a moment's warning, this harmless, and frequently,
very useful little dramatic part: all that she did,
was to color slightly, suppress two tears of mortification
and feeling which rose to her eyes, and say to herself that
it was very unjust and cruel in Ernest to meet her so.
Now, as injustice and cruelty were legitimate reasons for
dislike, Aurelia determined to dislike Mr. Sansoucy,
immediately.
The execution of her project was prevented for the
moment, however, by the conversation of Mr. Heartsease,
who was in unusual spirits, and made himself generally
fascinating.
As we have said, upon a former occasion, no words can
describe the serene effulgence of the Heartsease appearance,
when in full feather, and high spirits. There was
reason for Heartsease's spirits that evening, for just before
coming to see his friend, Miss Ashton, he had secured
a box of kid gloves, from Paris, of a tint long desired,
and looked for unsuccessfully—and had found them fit his
hand marvellously—not even so many as six in a dozen
being defective. This triumph had raised Heartsease's
spirits greatly, and at times his conversation became
almost lively.
The afflatus had, however, somewhat subsided, when
Mr. Sansoucy entered, and the elegant Heartsease was as
languid and smiling as ever.
When he asked Miss Ashton to favor him with a song,
it really did seem as if he should have associated with him
some more athletic gentleman to turn over the leaves of
the lady's music.
Aurelia, still pouting and absent, said that she really
could not sing.
“Not a simple aria, my dear Miss Ashton,” said
Heartsease, smoothing the fringed edge of his cravat, and
adjusting his collar with a gentle hand, “not some simple
morceau!”
“Indeed, Mr. Heartsease,” was Aurelia's reply, “I do
as yourself.”
“Connoisseur, Miss Ashton? No, no,” said Heartsease,
with a languid and agreeable smile, “I am only a
poor amateur. If you could only try my favorite Casta
Diva che inargenti—from Norma, you know—I should
really be exceedingly obliged. Going to the opera, you
know, and cramping one's self in those terrible stalls, is
really trying—it's a decided bore. And then the singers
open their mouths so abominably! I really feel sometimes
as if I were going to faint—I feel overcome—it
puts me in mind, my dear Miss Ashton, of those terrible
legends of my youth, in which the hero is swallowed by
cows, or dragous, or such monsters—and I fear for my
safety—I do, indeed.”
Aurelia smiles, with a bad grace, at Mr. Heartsease's
complaint, and says:
“But, indeed, sir, Casta Diva is so difficult.”
“Then, something else.”
“I am afraid—”
“Some simple aria, my dear Miss Ashton, from the
`Bohemian girl,' the `Fille du regiment,' or `Favorita'—
really I have set my heart upon hearing you. You
haven't the music? What a pity, and I suppose I am
doomed to disappointment.”
And Mr. Heartsease turns over some music, with a
languid grace.
“Ah,” he says, stopping at a piece, “here is the
duette—arranged for one voice. My old friend, `Mira
O Norma a'tuoi ginocchi.' But for the manifest impropriety
that most delicious air.”
Aurelia, whose patience is worn out by the smiling persistence
of the amiable Heartsease, and who really does
feel as if music would dissipate the unpleasant feeling in
her bosom, rises to comply with his request: and taking
her seat at the piano, commences the air from Norma.
It was then that the grace of Heartsease—his serene
amiability and elegant devotion—shone in all their native
and acquired splendor. Standing by the lady in a position
of profound attention—with his extended hand ready
to turn over the leaves—Heartsease seemed to yield himself
up a captive to the flood of harmony. His head
inclined gently upon his right shoulder—his enraptured
eyes sought the ceiling—and with languid-smiling lips
he kept time to the music, and appeared to soar away
from earth, and visit the land of magical kid gloves, and
unimagined “ties.”
His feelings rose and fell, so to speak, with the music.
When Norma was obdurate to her friends' prayer to
take again to her bosom her kneeling children, Heartsease
assumed an expression of affecting grief, but not as
one who expected nothing better coming. He seemed
to comfort himself, even in the depths of his affliction,
with the thought that things would not continue so bad
between the parties. Then, as the song proceeded, and
Norma gradually relented, an expression of triumph diffused
itself over the countenance of Heartsease, and his
enraptured chin kept time to the music more and more
enthusiastically. But when the final burst came, and the
and only dying clasped in each other's embrace—then it
was that Heartsease was overwhelmed with the dulcet
harmony, carried away by the magical strain. His head
went from side to side, rapturously—his closed eyes
seemed to behold Normas and Adelgisas of surpassing
beauty—his whole being appeared to thrill, from the topmost
lock upon his head to the bottom of his shining
boots, with delicious, entrancing pleasure. With the final
crash he seemed carried away; he could not repress his
feelings:—beat, gently, the forefinger of his left kid with
the forefinger of his right, and murmured in an ecstacy,
“Bravo! charming! exquisite! divine!”
“I am glad it pleases you, sir,” said Aurelia, rising,
with a vague impression that she had done wrong in
singing a song from Norma, under the peculiar circumstances.
“I find my voice too weak to sing any more,”
she added, as Mr. Heartsease extended another piece of
music toward her, with a languidly-graceful air; “you
really must excuse me, Mr. Heartsease.”
And Aurelia turned round, and played with her sash,
and glanced furtively at Mr. Sansoucy.
If that gentleman had been annoyed by her singing,
he did not show his annoyance. His countenance was
full of its habitual frank good humor; and he was replying
to a remark made by little Miss Bel, who shone on
that evening in a magnificent head-dress, consisting of a
bow of red ribbon fixed to the extremity of her not lengthy
locks behind. Bel's face was as rosy as a ripe peach, and
perfectly to her taste.
As Aurelia's eyes returned from the survey, they meet
those of Mr. Heartsease fixed upon her with languid
admiration.
“What a divine language the Italian is,” said Heartsease,
gently passing his hand through his hair.
“Do you like it?” was Aurelia's absent reply.
“Oh, I adore it—our own is a perfect bore after it.
It's so liquid, my dear Miss Ashton, and seems to be
made for the language of lovers.”
“Oh, indeed!”
“Yes: and I think when I contemplate matrimony, I
will apply myself to the task of acquiring it—to pay my
addresses in.”
“Then you must find an Italian lady.”
“Or one who knows Italian.”
“Yes, that will do.”
“And as many ladies,” continued Heartsease, with a
look of admiration: “sing it very sweetly, I do not
despair of finding one who will speak it as pleasingly.”
Heartsease was evidently going to flirt, but Aurelia,
with a mischievous little toss of the head, said:
“I don't believe young ladies, generally, know a bit
about Italian—they sing what is written upon their music,
and that's all. I can say for myself, at least, Mr. Heartsease,
that I am perfectly innocent of any knowledge of
the language, and am a mere parrot—I repeat it.”
“The country of such parrots is yet undiscovered,”
MR. HEARTSEASE FLIES AWAY ON THE WINGS OF NORMA.
[Description: 506EAF. Illustration page. Illustration of a woman playing at a piano with a man watching her and a man talking to two younger girls.]
abode there.”
“Would you?”
“I would, upon my soul.”
And Heartsease ogled Miss Aurelia.
“I would dedicate my life to the pursuit of one of
them—I would catch the beautiful bird—and I know
very well what it would resemble.”
“Indeed—what?” said Aurelia, smiling at the languid
admiration of Mr. Heartsease; “one with a plumage of
green, and yellow and gold, and with violet eyes?”
“Oh, no,” sighed Heartsease: “one with pink plumage,
and deep azure eyes, and far lovelier than the rest!”
And Mr. Heartsease cast an accidental glance at Miss
Ashton's pink dress, and then plunged his soft sweet eyes
into the blue depths of the lady's.
“Really, Mr. Heartsease!” said Aurelia, laughing with
her frank mirth, “I do not know how to reply to your
views upon animated nature! How could I? I am only
a country girl, you know, and have studied nothing more
uncommon than hens and chickens. How could we have
glided thus from Norma to the barn-yard?”
And enjoying Mr. Heartsease's discomfiture, Aurelia
played again with her sash.
But Heartsease was an accomplished fencer, and replied
with his best and most graceful smile that the hens and
chickens had arisen originally from the discussion of the
question whether the Italian was not the language of love
and music.
“And as such it suits the divine invention of the opera,”
he said, smiling.
“Does it?”
“Oh, yes, Miss Ashton.”
“I am afraid it does not for me. I would much rather
have English words to the airs.”
And as she uttered these words, Aurelia moved toward
her former seat.
Bel had heard them; and now said, with a mery laugh:
“Oh, cousin! why don't you ask Mr. Sansoucy to write
you some words?”
“Ask me?” said Mr. Sansoucy, smiling.
“Yes, sir,” said Bel.
“I am afraid I should fail—especially in anything connected
with the opera of Norma,” said Mr. Sansoucy,
with an air of good humored reproach.
And gliding into the seat formerly occupied by Heartsease,
who was again about to resume it, Sansoucy bestowed
upon Miss Aurelia one of his most friendly smiles.
Heartsease stood for a moment, almost stunned by his
defeat—then he heaved a deep sigh, and smoothed his
waistcoat. Thereafter, during the rest of the evening, he
wandered about the room with a melancholy air, turning
over volumes of engravings, levelling his eye-glass at the
pictures on the wall, and exchanging sad remarks with
Mr. or Mrs. Ashton. To see a star of fashion, like
Heartsease, thus beneath an obscuring cloud, was a spectacle
piteous in the extreme, and full of warning to the
rest of the world.
10. CHAPTER X.
AURELIA EXPLAINS.
Sansoucy, as we have said, glided into the seat occupied
by Mr. Heartsease before the commencement of the
song; and without a trace of that mortification or ill
humor, which for a moment had brought an expression of
gloom and pain to his features, applied himself to the
task of entertaining Miss Aurelia with the most friendly
and good humored air imaginable.
For an instant a slight color came into Aurelia's fresh
cheek, and she hesitated.
Some young ladies—perhaps the great majority—would
have replied in the same tone of nonchalance, and left
matters in the misty atmosphere they had assumed—content
to show their power, and impress upon the enemy
the idea of their perfect freedom and irresponsibility to
any masculine tribunal whatever. To Aurelia, however,
after one instant's reflection, this proceeding did not commend
itself. With her habitual frankness and sincerity,
she determined to lead the conversation to the real point
at issue between herself and Mr. Sansoucy.
That gentleman had informed Miss Bel that he really
would be unable to write any words for airs from the opera
of Norma; and he now added:
“I couldn't write words for any opera airs, my dearest
little Miss Bel. I am not a universal genius—not quite—
and I think the May-day song exhausted me.”
“Oh, it 's so nice!” said little Bel. “How in the
dresses hanging out in the sun?” added the young lady,
quoting admiringly from the song.
“I imagined their existence in that connection,” said
Sansoucy, smiling.
“`And all the girls are binding up their hair!”' continued
Miss Bel, laughing; “why, it 's just what they do!”
And the diminutive hand of the young lady was raised
to her own short locks, which no process of “binding up”
yet discovered, could possibly have coaxed into a twist
behind her head.
The observation occasioned a great deal of merriment;
and discovering where the joke lay, Miss Bel's rosy lips
assumed an undeniable pout: after which they parted to
permit a burst of laughter to issue forth.
“My dear child,” said Sansoucy, smiling, “an old adage
says, or ought to say, that to poets all things are possible.
In the present instance, I think my success in writing you
a song true to nature is demonstrated by your favorable
criticism and general approval.”
And pretending not to observe that Aurelia had tried
twice to address him, Mr. Sansoucy smoothed Miss Bel's
hair gently with his hand, after which he caused her lips
to present a most extraordinary spectacle, by pressing his
fingers upon the child's cheeks.
“I understand all those fine words very well,” was the
child's answer, “and I do so like your song, Mr. Sansoucy.
You'll write me another, won't you?”
“Oh, Bel, don't tease Mr. Sansoucy, “said Aurelia,
despairing of being able to attract his attention.
“Tease? I am not teased,” said the poet.
“Oh, I knew you were not!”
“No, Indeed.”
“Then you'll write some more for me and Lizzie?”
“Hum!”
“Now, say you will, Mr. Sansoucy, that will be
enough.”
“See, how these young ladies twist me like a ribband
around their fingers, Mrs. Ashton,” said Sansoucy, “how
can I refuse them? I always have been the victim of my
good humor.”
“Then you'll do it!” cried Bel.
“Yes, said Mr. Sansoucy, with an odd smile, “something
very funny and satirical—”
“But, cousin Aurelia will have to teach us, and that
will not please her.”
“Are you sure?”
This was the whole of Mr. Sansoucy's terrible revenge.
“Well,” he added, “I promise to make some verses for
both you and Lizzie: and then you will take my part if I
am ever abused in your presence. Have I not secured
two young friends at a very slight outlay, Miss Aurelia?”
said Sansoucy turning to the young lady who could not
restrain a slight color in her delicate cheeks, at her
repeated failure to arrest the speaker's attention; “I
make it a point never to offend a woman—I beg pardon,
a lady—and the more friends I make among them the
better.”
Aurelia was silent for an instant, struggling with the
temptation to reply in the same tone of easy carelessness.
been repaid in his own coin upon a similar occurrence—
but with the friend of her childhood, it was different.
She now said, as the rest went on conversing:
“I am afraid, Mr. Sansoucy, you have applied your
rule of action—not to offend ladies—to my case. Why
did you look so much pained and displeased when you
came in?”
Sansoucy was not prepared for such a direct attack,
and a sudden light in his eyes showed that he was taken
unawares.
“Displeased!” he said.
“Yes,” said Aurelia, in a frank kind voice, “you were,
however, even more pained, I thought.”
“Possible?”
“Yes: for goodness sake, don't treat me as if I were a
child, or a stranger, or an acquaintance of yesterday!
Cannot we speak frankly, sir, as old friends should?”
Sansoucy shook his head and sighed. These words
had at once dissipated all his affected carelessness, and
only the mortification remained.
“We were in a condition to speak in that way once,”
he said, “and even the other day, we might have done
so: but—”
Sansoucy again shook his head.
“You are very unjust and unreasonable!” said Aurelia,
looking at him with an expression of kindness and resolute
good feeling, which was not without a strong effect
upon him; “I really cannot understand how you have
so completely changed.”
“We have both changed,” said Mr. Sansoucy, sadly;
the conversation of the rest of the company rendering his
voice inaudible, except to Aurelia; “we have both undergone
a very great change. I will not make any reproaches—and
you should not reproach me.”
Sansoucy sighed as he spoke, like the most unhappy of
lovers: and, indeed, spite of his soliloquy, this was nearly
the character he sustained.
“Reproach me!” she said.
“Yes.”
“How could you?”
“It might not seem just to you—it might seem even
very silly.
“It will not” said Aurelia, simply.
“Well, let me be frank then, and say that I had expected
much pleasure from our visit to-night—”
“To the opera!”
“Yes.”
“And because—”
“Yes,” he said, sadly.
“Because you came in and found Mr. Heartsease—you
thought I expected his visit, and did not go? You thought
I concealed all this under my note of general excuses?
Oh! how much I must have fallen in your estimation!—
how unfortunate it is that you should think me capable
of such deception!”
And Aurelia, losing sight of any displeasure she had
felt at finding Mr. Sansoucy unable to deny the motives
imputed to him, yielded completely to the deep regret she
felt, and turned away her eyes which swam in moisture.
“How could you!” she murmured, “I thought our old
friendship entitled me to a little charity on such an occasion!
How could you think that I had so completely
forgotten my old frankness and sincerity—that I could
play thus with you to deceive you—that I am capable of
acting a part of so much insincerity and duplicity—with
you!”
And Aurelia restrained with difficulty the tears which
her impulsive feelings brought to her beautiful eyes—with
great difficulty. She looked lovelier than he had ever
seen her before—her delicate cheek redeened with blushes;
and a slight tremor of the lips showed how deep her
feeling was. There was something so kind and sincere,
so true and maidenly in her appearance, her look, her very
unconscious attitude, full of simplicity and modesty, that
Mr. Sansoucy found his own face glow with feeling, and
his heart throb.
“Pardon me,” he said, in a low voice, full of a tenderness
which he could not conceal, “I was weak and foolish—
no! I do not want any explanations or anything—nothing
could have made me act so unjustly, but the depth and
tenderness with which I—”
It is impossible to say how very plainly Mr. Sansoucy
would have spoken had not a pause in the conversation,
produced a silence, before which his words fainted—fearful
and cowardly.
He was silent, but he had uttered quite enough. Simple
as the words were, the tone of the speaker was so full of
love and tenderness, that Aurelia's cheek became crimson,
shot into her temples.
Mr. Sansoucy, with the presence of mind of a great
general, immediately called the public attention to a picture
over the fire-place, and asked Mr. Ashton the name
of the artist.
The information was promptly afforded Mr. Sansoucy,
by the old gentleman; and when the delighted recipient
had admired the painting again, he returned to Aurelia.
She had recovered her self-possession and smiled, when
his eyes met her own—a slight blush only accompanying
the timid smile and added to the delicate beauty of the
tender face.
“I am determined to explain everything,” she said, as
the rest of the company went on conversing; “my objection
to going to the opera to-night was based upon a
resolution I have made, not to `dissipate' so much. You
know we country girls,” she said, smiling, “are too apt to
be led away by the novelty of all this—especially the
opera, and become unreasonable.”
“The novelty is as much to the amiable town dames as
yourself,” he said, smiling softly, as he gazed at the lovely
face, “it is a new invention in Virginia.”
“Yes—but I am not going to so many balls either—”
“Oh, that—”
“Is an old invention: yes.”
“You are going to proscribe balls?” said Sansoucy, in
surprise.
“Oh, no: I am not going to take any stand against
them. I would make a very poor Joan of Arc—a very
women would not even let me be a little drummer girl in
the great army contending for Woman's Rights.”
Aurelia had resumed her delightful tone of delicate
mirth; and Mr. Sansoucy found himself deeply repenting
of the charges he had made against this trait, in his famous
soliloquy.
“I trust you will not enter the army at all,” he said,
looking with admiration at the frank and lovely face which
was illumined by the freshest and most joyous smile, “I
know one of the enemy who would lay down his arms!”
“Now you are flattering me!”
“No, indeed.”
“You shall not be called upon to do anything of the
sort then: I shall not make my appearance—and I am
not going even to attack the balls. I intend only to spend
less of my visits in amusements. I do not enjoy them as
much as a quiet evening with pleasant companions—and
those I always have.”
Sansoucy smiled, and nodded toward Heartsease.
“He is very entertaining,” said Aurelia, returning the
smile; “though I certainly had no right to expect him
this evening, as he visited me last night.”
This was a correct explanation of Miss Aurelia's, and
Mr. Sansoucy understood it perfectly.
“Oh that was unnecessary,” he said.
“What?”
“You have tell-tale eyes,” he replied, looking into her
face; “you betray yourself! Do not return to that
subject. It brought the color to your face—your old,
caused it.”
“It was nothing,” said Aurelia, smiling, and threatening
to color again; “besides, you extricated me very adroitly.
That is a sweet painting.
And she pointed to the picture over the fire-place.
“Yes,” said Mr. Sansoucy; “will you go with me
to-morrow, and see the new gallery, just opened?”
“I would, willingly—but—I have some engagements:—
engagements that I'm sure you would think sufficiently
important not to be neglected,” she added, with a smile.
“Morning calls?”
“Oh, no—at least not such as you think—but that is
my secret!”
Sansoucy sighed, and looking with admiration at the
lovely face, said:
“Well, I must have the pleasure of seeing the paintings
with you. The day after to-morrow?”
“Oh, willingly.”
“And the Fair to-morrow evening.”
“Willingly!” repeated Aurelia; and soon they had
made all the arrangements.
Half an hour afterwards, both gentlemen rose and took
their leave together — Heartsease having completely
regained his good humor; and Sansoucy, as we need
scarcely say, having lost as completely his ill humor.
He was induing himself in his wrappings, which the
cold wind rendered exceedingly comfortable, when he
heard the merry voice of little Miss Bel, cry:
“Be sure, now, to bring our songs to-morrow, or next
day, if you come, Mr. Sansoucy; will you!”
Mr. Sansoucy considered it unnecessary to say that he
certainly was coming to-morrow, or the next day; but he
very readily promised to comply with the request.
“I think you are very good!” said Bel, as a parting
compliment, from the threshold.
“I am rejoiced to have conciliated your good opinion,
madam,” was Mr. Sansoucy's polite reply.
And he went away with Heartsease, whom he now
regarded as a most agreeable and gentlemanly fellow,
and one whom he had basely slandered.
11. CHAPTER XI.
HEARTSEASE IS OVERHEARD.
The night was exceedingly cold, and by the time the
two pedestrians reached the neighbourhood of Mr. Sansoucy's
lodgings, they were thoroughly chilled.
A proposition was therefore made, and adopted unanimously,
that they should proceed still further down the
street, and procure a supper, of that hot description which
restaurants serve up for the chilled palates of late visitors.
There are things which possess in themselves an innate
and peculiar attraction, not easily explained, but none
the less unmistakeable on that account—and among
these may be classed late suppers. The propensity to
partake of tempting condiments at late hours of the night,
characters, and editors—it is shared by all alike; and
the smoking banquet set before the two gentlemen was as
much to the taste of Heartsease, the man of fashion, as
Sansoucy, the journalist.
They sat in one of those little alcoves which, for some
reason, the architects of such houses seem to consider
necessary for visitors, on each side of the narrow table,
ornamented with castors which never had any mustard,
and whose pepper-cruet obdurately refused to furnish its
portion of the repast—and sitting thus, applied themselves
to the supper, and then to the hot fluids which the
cold night induced them to demand.
“What a fine girl she is,” said Heartsease, investigating
his punch with a languid smile. “Miss Ashton!”
“Indeed, she is,” replied Sansoucy.
“Beautiful, too.”
“Yes.”
“And as gay as a lark.
“When she chooses, she is a perfect sunbeam.”
“I say, my dear Sansoucy,” said Heartsease: “do you
know I think of marrying?”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it's an admirable resolution.”
“Is it, really?”
“Certainly.”
“Well, I think so, too. The fact is, a man gets tired
of bachelor life after a-while.”
“Nothing truer.”
“And longs to be married.”
“Why, Heartsease, you are growing domestic.”
“I believe I am,” sighed Heartsease, with a modest
air. “I have the most terrible washerwoman.”
“Washerwoman!”
“She exterminates my buttons in a way that is absolutely
frightful.”
“Oh, she does—eh?”
And Sansoucy contemplated the chagrin in Heartsease's
face with cruel mirth
“Besides, I never can get even a decent collar,” continued
that gentleman, raising his hand to the article in
question.”
“Why not?”
`Not enough of starch.”
And Heartsease sighed.
“You afflict me, my dear friend,” said Sansoucy, “but
how will marriage prevent this?”
“How?”
“Precisely.”
“Why, madam will take care of all that.”
“And you marry—!”
“For this? why, certainly. This, and having a wife,”
was Heartsease's languid reply.
“I really didn't think of this last reason,” said Sansoucy;
“there really is something in that.”
“I think so:—and the nicer your wife is, the better.”
“Assuredly.”
“I think Miss Ashton would suit me exactly.”
“Do you?”
“She is charming.”
“So she is—but the buttons?”
“Eh?”
“And the collars?”
“Oh, yes.”
“I doubt whether she would see to the starch.”
Heartsease looked melancholy.
“Don't you think she would?” he said. “Come,
advise me.”
“I advise you?”
“Why, certainly,”
“Why, I'm your rival!”
“You, Sansoucy!”
“I, my dear Heartsease, and I am going to defeat
you.”
“You don't mean to say—”
“That I'm in love with Miss Aurelia? Yes I do—
and I warn you to play your part well.”
“Hum!” said Heartsease, languidly.
“I shall press the siege.”
“Really, now?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then I withdraw. It's a bore to contest a woman—
everything is a bore, for that matter.”
“You are unhappy—you are a misanthrope!”
“Well, I am,” sighed Heartsease.
“I thought you said, coming down, that the gloves—'
“Had put me in good humor?”
“Yes.”
“Well, so I did, my dear Sansoucy But I find this
one actually bagging in the thumb.”
And Heartsease gazed with an expression of profound
despair upon his kid glove.
“Gloves are like women,” said Heartsease, philosophically;
“They don't answer a man's expectations.”
“Cynic.”
“Oh, no, I am not.”
“You are!”
“I am not, though this misfortune might make me
one.”
“The gloves?”
“Yes.”
“Poor fellow!”
“You laugh at me, unworthy friend! That's like you.
But gloves are like woman, otherwise,” continued the
philosopher Heartsease, who had been sipping his punch.
“How so?” asked his friend.
“They are either too warm or too cold.”
“What a calumny!”
“They either take no notice of your hand, they are so
loose, or they squeeze it—”
“Heartsease! Heartsease!”
“There,” said Heartsease, “I suppose I have said
something wrong. My dear friend, bring me another
punch—I am in a melancholy humor.”
“You?” said Sansoucy, as the waiter disappeared.
“Yes.”
“Well, go and read Tennyson's `Will Waterproof.”'
“Will Waterproof?”
“Yes—his monologue.”
“What is it?”
“It 's a number of reflections on human life, made by
Waterproof while he waits for a pint of port in a house
like this. He drums upon the table, reflects, and moralizes
in verse.”
“Good, but I won't, my dear Sansoucy—what a terrible
clatter there is in the next box, just that drumming
you mention.”
“Your nerves are weak.”
“So they are; I had some Cologne on my handkerchief
to-night that nearly knocked me down.”
“So strong?”
“Yes, terrible. I have sent a reproachful note to the
vendor, bidding him farewell forever.”
“What a pity.”
“A great pity,” said Heartsease, who had received his
second punch by this time, and was sipping it; but the
world 's a pitiful place.”
“Fie! you are a philosopher, Heartsease.”
“I am a wretch,” said Heartsease.
“No, no!”
“You are a wretch, too, my dear Sansoucy,” said
Heartsease, with an amiable look; “all the world are
wretches.”
“Untrue.”
“It's true.”
“How?”
“Look around you, at the professions.”
“Well.”
“The lawyers.”
“Very good.”
“Do you know an honest man among them?”
“Several.”
“You 're a lucky fellow. I don't. But look at the
doctors.”
“What of them?”
“They are rascals!”
“Oh, Heartsease!”
“They are, my dear friend—and observe that it is only
when I drink punch that I gain energy enough to take
the trouble to express these views.”
“Take care of the quantity.”
“Oh!”
“You are offended now at my advice.”
“Not at all; but have you ever seen me intoxicated?”
“No.”
“I think not.”
And Heartsease certainly was not, in the least: the
only effect produced upon him by the punch being an
expanded and philosophic humor.
“The world itself is intoxicating enough — that is
enough of a bore,” he added. “As to life, and all that,
my dear Sansoucy, what is it good for?”
“For various things.”
“I don't think so.”
“Why?”
“Because everything in it is laughable.”
“And nothing real?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
“Just now you said men were wretches. They are
real!”
“Yes—they are exceptions.”
“And all are wretches.”
“Precisely; especially the doctors. There is that old
fellow Fossyl—you know him?”
“Perfectly.”
“I was sick the other day.”
“You!”
“That is, I had a pain in the joint of my little finger.”
“Oh!”
“And I called him in.”
“Really!”
“Yes, why are you surprised?”
“I am not; I was listening to that growling in the
next box.”
“Really revolting;—shall I call the waiter and request—”
“Oh, no—it 's nothing.”
“Well, I was saying—”
“About Doctor Fossyl—”
“Yes. Well, he came, and examined my finger—and
what do you think he said?”
“I can't think.”
“He told me to apply a rose-leaf—”
“No!”
“Yes, a rose-leaf steeped in dew—”
“Heartsease!”
“And to tie it with the ribband from the neck of a
bottle of Cologne—no other would do.”
“You are joking!” said Sansoucy.
“I'm in dead earnest.”
“And did it cure it?”
“No! it turned out he was laughing at me.”
“Was he?”
“Yes—and it was only after thinking where I should
find a rose leaf at this season, that I began to scent the
joke.”
“A terrible thing is the doctor.”
“Was'nt it awful!”
“Shocking!”
“It implied, you know, my dear Sansoucy, that I had
nothing the matter with me.”
“Certainly did.”
“Whereas I had.”
“Yes.”
“That, therefore, my dear friend,” said Heartsease,
smiling, “is my ground for considering Doctor Fossyl a
wretch—life a farce—human nature a blunder, and the
universe generally an after piece.”
With which words Heartsease was about to apply himself
again to his punch, when he suddenly stopped.
Erect before the alcove, plate in hand, and indignant,
he saw Doctor Fossyl standing, and gazing at him with
terrible eyes.
“Why, is that you, my dear doctor?” said Heartsease,
smiling.
“Yes, sir!” cried Doctor Fossyl.
“Come in and take some punch—it's decidedly good.”
“No, sir!”
“I want to talk about my finger. The swelling—”
“Is, I hope, increased!”
“Oh! doctor, what an unforgiving man!”
“I play in a farce, sir!”
“So you do.”
“Life's not a farce, sir—though farce-actors play in it.”
“No!”
“Yes, sir; and you are a very accomplished one!”
“I, my dear doctor!”
“You, sir!”
“Come, now—you can't deny that it is, after all.”
“It is a calumny, sir—life is a place for a man to do
his duty, to acquit himself of his responsibility—to be a
man in, such as God made us to be! Do you hear,
sir!”
“I thought you were a sceptic, doctor.”
“Don't taunt me, sir, with my mistakes and faults—
and above all, sir, don't taunt the profession which you
cannot comprehend. No, sir! you are not mistaken in
supposing my prescription was a satire! Next time, sir,
if you call me away from my patients, I'll prescribe a
decoction of butterflies' wings!”
And brandishing his plate as though with the intention
of bringing it down, in his wrath, upon Mr. Heartsease's
head, Doctor Fossyl disappeared; and in a moment had
left the eating-house, into which he had gone to get a
mouthful after an entire day without food.
“Queer old coon,” said Heartsease. Isn't he?”
“I must say that his words astonish me greatly,”
muttered Sansoucy.
“Do you think he meant to compare me to a
butterfly?”
“How could he?”
“True: how could he? I am the most serious man
about town, and dress in the best taste.”
“Certainly, Heartsease.”
“Extraordinary old fellow.”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Would look well in a blue waistcoat and fancy tie.”
And with this good-humored criticism, Heartsease and
Sansoucy rose and returned homeward.
“I say,” said Heartsease, as they parted at the corner;
“did you ever think what the stars were made for?”
“Well—no.”
“I'll tell you, my dear friend.”
“Do.”
“They were put there—”
“Yes.”
“To keep me from stumbling at this dreadful crossing,
my dear fellow. Good night; take care of yourself.”
And kissing his hand, Heartsease, with his amiable
smile, disappeared in the darkness.
“There is only one thing stranger than the existence
of such a character as Heartsease,” murmured he, as he
turned the key in his door; “and that is the extraordinary
change in Doctor Fossyl!”
12. CHAPTER XII.
AURELIA'S PRIZE AT THE FAIR.
Sansoucy was prompt to his engagement on the next
evening; and ladies know very well how much such
promptitude indicates.
In fact, it had seemed to Mr. Sansoucy, that the figures
indicating the hour of eight, on that evening, had been
put forward on the face of time by some adverse fate—
and that the day would never end, and bring the world
round to the expected hour.
Precisely, as the hands of Mr. Ashton's clock pointed
to the time, Mr. Sansoucy made his appearance—greeted
Mr. and Mrs. Ashton; and saw that Aurelia was quite
ready. A malicious critic would have said that she anticipated
quite as much pleasure from the visit, as did her
admirer—but the gallantry of the present historian will
not permit him even so much as to hint such a thing;
and he confines himself, therefore, to the simple statement,
that Miss Aurelia's appearance indicated that she was not
only willing, but ready.
Mr. Sansoucy was doomed, however, to first undergo
the importunities of Misses Bel and Liz, for their verses,
promised them. To these demands he replied, that the
words of their request had been, “if you come to-morrow
or the next day”—and inasmuch as the next day had not
yet arrived, he was not failing in his promise.
“Well, sir, please bring them to-morrow,” said Miss
music, and sing them.”
“Cousin Aurelia?”
“Yes, sir—she has been singing the May verses all the
afternoon, and I have learned them so nicely.”
For some reason, Miss Aurelia turns away, and says
she must go up stairs for something.
“Cousin Aurelia is so good to us,” says Lizzie, with
an affectionate look.
“Is she?”
“Yes, indeed, I love her dearly.”
“And so do I,” said Bel, “don't you, Mr. Sansoucy?
Of course—I mean—”
And Miss Bel, fearing that she has committed an impropriety,
assumes a delightful little air of demure
gravity—and thereafter bursts out laughing.
Liz looks surprised and says:
“Why, everybody loves cousin Aurelia—I think she is
the sweetest and dearest thing in the world! Indeed, indeed,
Mr. Sansoucy, when you know her well, you'll like
her as much as we do.”
“No doubt of it, my little friend.”
“I'm sure you will,” says the child, with that manner
full of softness and smiles, of purity and goodness, which
none but the authoress of one of the most delightful books
of any age, the “Wide, Wide World,” can adequately reproduce.
As for the present historian, he follows that
beautiful and pure pen at a respectful distance, and gladly
acknowledges the delightful entertainment, as well as the
instruction he has derived from those beautiful pictures
from the subject of Mr. Sansoucy's visit to the fair;
and we are recalled to our duty of chronicler, by the
reëntrance of Aurelia, who smiles, and signifies that she
is ready.
The wind had lulled, and although it was very cold,
they had a fine starlight night to guide them. They soon
reached the Fair, and entered the buzzing and brilliant
throng.
The Fair had been originated by some charitable
ladies for the poor; and all classes of the community had
been called upon to contribute something to its tables.
The call had not been in vain—and Miss Aurelia gazed
with the curiosity and interest of a true woman, upon the
beautiful things heaped up upon the tables. Her own
needle had contributed, in no slight degree, to several of
the departments; and she felt a pardonable pride upon
finding that these were not excelled in taste or beauty, by
anything of the same description which had been offered.
The young lady was early in the evening armed with a
huge bouquet, for which Mr. Sansoucy was compelled by
his hard little merchant, the vendor, to pay a moderate
fortune:—and so they went on through the crowd, smiling
and exchanging salutations with a hundred friends.
The apartment blazed with lights, and the fair merchants
had prepared their head-dresses, and decorations
generally with the evident conviction that they would be
subjected to a large amount of comment—and the consequence
of this preparation was an array of enemies fatal
to that class.
The immense crowd hummed and buzzed and laughed
and undulated to and fro:—and at times this laughter
would rise almost to a shout, and the uproar would be
stunning.
In their circuit Aurelia saw suddenly opposite to her,
Mr. Heartsease—and as this gentleman had been pining
for a recognition for some moments, their salutation was
simultaneous.
“How divinely you look this evening, my dear Miss
Ashton,” said the amiable Heartsease, gently passing his
hand through his hyacinthine locks; “I thought there
was something wanting in the rooms—but since you came,
the spectacle is perfect.”
And the gallant Heartsease smiled, kissing his hand to
a lady friend, who nodded to him as she passed.
“Oh, me! what terrible flattery!” said Aurelia, laughing,
“or rather irony—you are too bad, Mr. Heartsease.”
“I never, never flatter,” sighed Heartsease.
“Then you admire me very much,” said Aurelia, logically,
and smiling as she spoke, “how pretty the rooms
are—the tables.”
“I was admiring the animated nature, my dear Miss
Ashton.”
“Were you?”
“Yes, indeed: I have lost my heart seven distinct times
since my entrance. Ah! I am dreadfully susceptible.”
“Indeed.”
“Too true—and I foresee that I shall lose it for the
eighth time in a moment—there, it's gone!”
And Heartsease ogled Miss Aurelia with affecting
earnestness.
“Oh, Mr. Heartsease, how you jest!”
“Never.”
“You are making fun of a country girl.”
“I admire them vastly more than town ladies.”
“Where there is so much to attract? I think that
you and Mr. Sansoucy laugh at me.”
And Aurelia with a delightful affectation of chagrin
looked at Sansoucy.
That gentleman's look was quite enough, if Miss Aurelia
truly feared such a thing; and she turned away in silence.
“They are about to have a lottery yonder,” sighed
Heartsease, smiling; “the project was explained to me
just now.
“What is it, sir?”
“You buy a ticket, and draw a blank or a prize,”
replied Hearstease, with the air of a man who utters an
intricate and difficult sentence, and fears it will not be
understood.
“Ah!” said Aurelia.
“Possible!” said Sansoucy.
“Yes, my dear friend, and I think I'll go take a chance.
It has been formerly observed that marriage is a lottery—
which prevents me from making the remark again. As I
can't try matrimony, I'll try the lottery.”
“Why, can't you?” said Sansoucy.
“Impossible, my dear fellow—I have reflected about
all.”
“Have you?”
“Yes, yes!”
“Well, you are philosophical: who are you smiling at?”
But Heartsease's enraptured eyes were fixed upon the
distance.
“Who is it, my dear Heartsease?”
But Heartsease only kissed his hand to the distance.
“Come—I know that is a lady—and for an incorrigible
bachelor—”
“Pardon me, my dear friend,” said Heartsease, gliding
away, “and you, my dear Miss Ashton, I see as a friend
I wish to salute—my highly esteemed friend, Miss Gosyp.”
And Heartsease disappeared in the crowd, languid and
smiling to the last.
“Suppose we follow Mr. Heartsease's advice,” said Sansoucy,
smiling; “here is the lottery.”
Aurelia assented, and Mr. Sansoucy purchasing some
tickets, they waited for the wheel of fortune to revolve.
The utmost incongruity was observable in the prizes which
fell to various elderly gentlemen, and a lady of great dignity
started back before the vision of a snuff-box.
Mr. Sansoucy drew a blank—Aurelia, a prize.
It was the lace cap of a child, and with a smile, she
declared herself perfectly satisfied. They again entered
the undulating noisy crowd, and so in the midst of one of
the merriest uproars ever seen or heard, passed the hours
of the evening until nearly midnight.
Mr. Sansoucy and Aurelia went away before the crowd
of the cold bright night, talked on a thousand subjects—
which conversation the present historian sees no reason to
repeat.
The stars must surely be intended for some other purpose
than to show the crossings, even though their light
be needed by as elegant a gentleman as Heartsease.
Surely, if even they were as the ancients thought, only
bright lamps hung in the heavens for the benefit of earth,
their mission is far nobler than to light a crossing. In
their infinite depths, a solemn beauty reigns—a joy, and
thoughtful loveliness—and though the philosopher of a
unique school, considered it a “sad sight;” a thousand
and ten thousand human hearts, know how much quiet joy
lies in those golden fires, fretting the noble vault, and
shining upon earth with hope and encouragement. Under
the light of stars such tender words have been spoken!—
such pure feelings have risen up like silent fountains,
touched by a hand they must obey! Such loving words
have been whispered with those serene sentinels for listeners—such
hope has come to fainting human souls from
gazing on them in their azure fields, and thinking how
they roll forever there, and like the moon, “take up the
wondrous tale,” through all the ages, and show who has
made and placed them there!
So under the stars Sansoucy and Aurelia came back
home—and the little hand lay in his own at parting—and
the innocent cheek was covered with its tell-tale blush.
She went from him like the light—and when he turned
away the night seemed darker.
He saw her plainly all the way as he returned—with perfect
plainness—her bright eyes laughing—and her slipper
poised upon the portico, as she stood on the threshold—
and in her hand the pretty lace cap which she had drawn
at the fair.
“How beautiful and lovely she is,” he said; “so pure
and good.”
And Mr. Sansoucy went on with a smile.
13. CHAPTER XIII.
DOCTOR FOSSYL AND SANSOUCY.
Eleven o'clock had just struck on the following morning,
and Mr. Sansoucy was wiping his pen, with his completed
morning task before him, when he perceived that
an equipage stopped before the entry which led to his
office; and in a few moments a man's step was heard
ascending the stairs.
With that patience which becomes a necessity with official
persons and editors, Mr. Sansoucy threw himself back
in his chair and fixed his eyes calmly upon the door.
It opened and gave entrance to Doctor Fossyl.
Doctor Fossyl was clad, as usual, from head to foot, in
black; and his thin hair stood erect, as it always did,
upon his yellow and emaciated forehead. His legs were
cased in their old splatterdashes, and were marvels of
slenderness—in his hand he carried the ebony snuff-box
from which he had regaled himself with a pinch as he
ascended.
So far, every thing in Doctor Fossyl's appearance was
just as usual; but his countenance and manner had undergone
a marked change. The heavy grey brows no longer
hooked themselves, so to speak, together over the caverns
in which his restless and bitter eyes rolled gloomily or
satirically—his thin lips were no longer drawn across his
yellow teeth, with a sneer at himself and everything:—
his whole countenance was subdued and earnest in its
expression; and an eager, craving look in the deep eyes
indicated emotions of a description very unusual with the
cynical physician.
He entered, and said to Mr. Sansoucy, with cold
indifference:
“Good morning, sir—I called to tell you that your
friend Lacklitter no longer needs my services.”
“Ah, doctor! you bring me very welcome news,” said
Sansoucy, “sit down—those stairs are terribly fatiguing”—
“Yes, they are,” said the doctor, wiping an imperceptible
moisture from his thin brow, and seating himself.
“And the consequence of the recovery of Joe Lacklitter
is—”
“My money—yes.”
“I had the word upon my tongue, doctor,” said Sansoucy,
who seemed to know his visitor well, and so came
at once to the point. “I would have allowed another
man to talk about the weather, or politics, or anything
first; and so come in due time to mention, quite incidentally,
his “little bill”—but your time—”
“Is valuable: you are right.”
“Certainly, Doctor.”
“And the money is earned fairly.”
“Yes, again.”
“Why not ask for it directly then? It is the affectation
of all professions, sir, to make believe that they feel
a repugnance to asking for their dues. I don't.”
“I know it, Doctor.”
“I have just received thirteen hundred dollars, which I
was entitled to, and asked for—and to have seen the face
of the man I had saved, only after the most tremendous
contest with death, you would have imagined that I had
asked him to make me a present of the money.”
“That is a tolerably respectable sum of money, Doctor,
to draw for at one minute's sight,” said Sansoucy, good
humoredly.
“It was earned.”
“No doubt.”
“Hardly and laboriously earned. Look at me.”
“You look badly.”
“I am worn out. I have a constitution of iron, in
spite of my emaciation; but I am nearly dead for want
of sleep, and from anxiety.”
“This man?”
“Yes.”
“Do you feel wearing anxiety?”
“I? Yes! Perhaps it is my curse, but I feel throb
by throb, agony by agony, the suffering of my patients,
and until they are snatched from the grasp of death, death
clutches at me.”
Sansoucy gazed with curiosity upon the strange man
before him, who spoke so coldly of his suffering.
“And when I am worn out with this grim struggle,”
said the Doctor, “I am denied my money.”
“Not denied, Doctor!”
“Yes—not seldom denied. But I get it?” I keep no
books—let us arrange our account, and end it.”
“Willingly.”
“Here is the account for attendance on Lacklitter—
I have purposely made it as moderate as possible—not to
do you a favor, but for my own reasons.”
Sansoucy looked at it.
“Why, Doctor, you rob yourself!” he said, “it is
nothing.”
“Gold, bank notes, or a check.”
And Doctor Fossyl pretended to have misunderstood.
“Really, Doctor—it does not look fair to pay you this
trifle—”
“No discount.”
“What are you talking about, Doctor?”
“My money.”
“I say it is robbing you.”
“Pay me.”
And this was all Sansoucy could extract. He smiled,
determined to humor the physician, and sitting down,
wrote a check for the amount.
Doctor Fossyl then carefully receipted the account, and
presented it solemnly to Mr. Sansoucy, as though calling
upon him to witness that he had delivered it. Then he
put the check in his waistcoat pocket, and remained silent
for some time.
“A pretty character that Heartsease is!” he said, at
length, “a perfect grasshopper!”
“Last night you suggested his resemblance to a butterfly,
my dear Doctor.”
“So I did, and it is even more appropriate.”
“Ah, let us be lenient!”
“We are not called upon to be.”
“I think we are.”
“How? but here we come to a discussion about the
Bible, which we have already gone through.”
Sansoucy nodded, and was silent. Doctor Fossyl looked
keenly at him.
“You went away thinking about my reply to your
friend, Heartsease, last night,” he said, “did you not?”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“And what did you think of it?”
“Think?”
“What feeling did it cause you, sir?”
“One of very great pleasure.”
“Why?”
“Because I believe you will be a happier man for your
belief, Doctor.”
“What does my happiness or unhappiness concern
you?”
“Nothing in my purse—to answer your question in the
spirit you ask it:—much in myself, personally, for I have
much regard for you.”
“You!”
“Yes.”
“For me.”
“Undoubtedly, Doctor.”
“Why?”
“First, because, when I had that terrible attack last
summer, your kindness and attention were beyond all
praise or acknowledgment—”
“Humph!”
“Secondly, because I know that your cold and bitter
manner conceals a heart full of kindness.”
“Bah! don't try to flatter me.”
“What should I gain?”
“I 'm rich.”
“I have enough, my dear philosopher; and I don't
want any of your money.”
“And so you are glad that I recognize my responsibility,
in words at least, to a supreme being?”
“Yes.”
“Humph!”
And Doctor Fossyl was silent. Then looking in the
same keen way at Sansoucy, he said:
“Do you know I used to despise you?”
“No, Doctor.”
“I did, however.”
“I am sorry; why?”
“Because I thought you just such a butterfly as Heartsease.”
Sansoucy shook his head.
“I 'm afraid I 'm a terrible trifler yet, Doctor.”
“You are nothing of the sort.”
“What am I then?”
“I don't pretend to say—I only say I despise you
men.”
“What a bitter time of it you must have had.”
“How bitter?”
“With so much poison in your heart.”
“Poison, sir?”
“Yes, Doctor—I think that rage, and bitterness, and
contempt, are the most acrid of all poisons to the heart.”
“Humph!”
Sansoucy observed that this monosyllable represented,
in their conversation, a species of acquiescence on the
Doctor's part, and said:
“Come, am I not right?”
“I do not dispute it.”
“There, Doctor, I have gained a victory.”
“A very poor one—I am by no means satisfied, sir, that
I was not right in despising mankind.”
“Ah, Doctor, permit me to say that you were a thousand
times wrong.”
“Prove it!”
“I am embarrassed by the mass of proofs—the fertility
of the fields of illustration—I cannot. But this I will
say, that the annals of the world are crowded with the
most splendid and conspicuous figures, which represent,
each one of them, some noble virtue, some lofty career—
something to make us look upon the great, true man, as
the worthy creation of an Almighty and all-true Being,
supreme, and good, and adorable. I need not speak of
these—they stretch all along the far fields of the past, and
rise against the horizon of history like mountains.”
“And the valleys?”
“I understand you—but they prove that the world is
not flat.”
Doctor Fossyl looked at his companion's careless and
smiling face, and said:
“Your philosophy is very fine—I am only sorry I can't
embrace it.”
“Try.”
Doctor Fossyl shook his head, and was silent.”
14. CHAPTER XIV.
AN OUTLINE OF MR. SANSOUCY, DRAWN BY HIMSELF.
Sansoucy was silent also, but with him it seemed the
silence of conviction.
“Only exert your will to believe my philosophy, Doctor,”
he said at length, “and you will find not the least
difficulty in it.”
“It has insuperable difficulties.”
“Come, what are they?”
“The facts of the case.”
“How?”
The Doctor, with his old growl, said cynically:
“Look at all classes of men—look at polities! how a
herd of petty fricksters pull the wires, and lead the blind
flock from field to field—”
“Look at the great leader.”
“Who is such?”
“The man who died but the other day was—the man
for whom the nation mourns to-day, with banners at half
mast, and the boom of cannon, and that general gloom
which marks the passage of a nobleman of nature to his
home!”
“You mean—”
“The man of Ashland; yes,” said Sansoucy, whose
face glowed, as it always did when he thought of this
leader. “Yes! the man of Ashland! Think of him!
A man who stood, the impersonation of a grand and glorious
era, a new people, a supreme republic!—a man
shaped and moulded `in the very prodigality of nature'—
a man born by us yonder, in the Slashes—in Hanover,
immortalized by her two Henrys—going thence to a new
country, without friends or money—rising almost at a
bound to his own splendid atmosphere—and holding his
position there by the pure gift of nature! See how he
rose from height to height—how, everywhere, the very
opponents who fought against him conscientiously, followed
him with their eyes as he went up like an eagle—
waiting for his words and wondering. See him stand
finally a majestic form upon the steeps of glory, preserving,
twice as far as one man could, the unity and life of the
republic: see him go down then, passing by what his
glory did not need, to his simple farm house—sinking like
the sun, grander and more glorious even in its setting!
Embrace at a glance, from horizon to horizon, this vast
and splendid career!—and tell me if a charlatan could
have thus grappled to his own the heart of a great
nation, and have stood as he did, noble and beautiful, and,
in its splendor! Such a man makes a period, and
dazzles me from the summit of his glory! For myself,
Doctor, I do not hesitate—I may have too little brain—
too much enthusiasm! But when I consider this man and
his career, the blood flows through my veins more rapidly—
my heart is melted in my breast—I bow before his memory,
and say, `The world seems drearier since you went
away—the sun is not so bright—the mould which shaped
your soul is broken. Hail, and farewell!—hail, and farewell,
Harry Clay!”'
Sansoucy wiped his moist brow and was silent: and for
a moment the Doctor was silent too.
“It would be folly to deny the great intellect and
splendid genius of this man—and I speak not ill of one
whom the grave covers,” said Doctor Fossyl at length; “I
spoke only of those ragged and repulsive lazzaroni who
`prowl around the tombs of our dead Cæsars,' as a journalist
like yourself has said. No, sir, I do not call in
question the greatness of our noble Virginian; neither do
I presume to do, what you seem to fear, deride your
enthusiasm: but my heart beats not so warmly—I am
old—”
Oh, Doctor, that is a piece of self-deception! You
have a noble heart.”
“Bah! I have a bitter and uncompromising cynicism.”
“No, no!”
“I doubt everything.”
“And every man?”
“Nearly.”
“Not me, I hope?” said Sansoucy.
“I don't know—you are one of the few men who seem
to me disinterested.”
“What a triumph!”
“I am glad you feel it?”
“I do.”
“Wait till I speak a little more plainly.”
“Speak.”
The Doctor looked at his companion for a moment, and
said, coldly:
“What did you expect when you befriended Lacklitter?”
“Nothing.”
“Are you sure?”
“Certainly, I expected neither money nor service—”
“But reputation for charity and amiability?”
Sansoucy laughed.
“Why, no, Doctor,” he said, it was simply one of my
eccentricities. I met Ellie—her face pleased me, for its
goodness and purity—she came and called on me for
assistance for her uncle. I gave what I could—that's all.”
“And you expected nothing.”
“Nothing else but her smile and Joe's.”
“You were satisfied with that?”
“Why should I not be? Ah, my dear Doctor, pardon
me if I say you make the common blunder of strong intellects
and acute minds. You measure my feelings by your
own, my pleasures by your own—or else by those of some
arbitrary character erected in your own imagination as a
test—a philosopher's stone; to try if my own is gold or
Doctor. Your chief delight lies in tracing step by step,
indication after indication, the vestiges of disease in the
subject beneath your scalpel—you pounce upon the imperceptible
indications with triumph; you are king over disease,
even among the trophies of his power. Or else, and
this is more amiable, you triumph in your victory over
your rout of this power—you wrestle with death and
throw him by pure strength; I honor, and wonder at you,
and envy you. But I cannot imitate you. With other
men, too, it is this or that cause of pleasure—you try me
by yourself or by them, and you find me wanting, because
my pleasure lies neither in a successful diagnosis, or political
success, or literary renown; or that lowest of passions
the acquisition of wealth. Well, I certainly depend for
my happiness upon none of these things. I am odd,
eccentric, ridiculous—anything you choose—but I am
sincere. I am quite sincere, my dear Doctor: and I can't
help it. Why quarrel with the character which God has
given me? I like simple things—what the world calls
trifles. I would rather have the affection of a child, than
the fear of a nation. I would rather hear a girl singing
an old ballad, at the window of one of our Virginia country
houses, as she sews, than listen to the finest cantatrice that
ever trilled her grace notes before silent thousands in the
theatre. I'd rather have my old friend at my side, than
talk with a duke—there it is, Doctor: very ridiculous, but
very sincere. I can't help it, and I'm not ashamed of it.”
“So you were wholly disinterested in this affair of
Lacklitter?”
“I think so.”
“You expected nothing?”
“I think not: nothing but the pleasure which any man
of good feeling derives from doing what he thinks his
duty—that's all.”
“I believe you, sir,” said Doctor Fossyl, with the air of
a man who pays the noblest possible tribute to another.
“I honor you, and I thank you for much more than
teaching me that men are not all base!”
With which words, Doctor Fossyl rose, extended his
livid hand to Mr. Sansoucy, and taking a cigar from the
mantel-piece, lit it, and went away without another word.
The piece of paper used to light the cigar had fallen
on the floor, and as it burned still, Mr. Sansoucy placed
his foot upon it to extinguish it.
He perceived for the first time that it was his check,
given in payment of the Doctor's account for attending
upon Joe Lacklitter.
15. CHAPTER XV.
EXPLAINS WHO PASSED MR. SANSOUCY ON THE STAIRS.
Sansoucy threw the remainder of the check into the
fire, and said:
“One of this man's eternal eccentricities—and he will
only be offended if I persist. Well, he has a right to be
charitable; and I know this is not the first or the thousandth
time, he has acted the part of the good Samaritan.
cold and barren scepticism—well, well, well: this is
a strange world: though not a `world of vanity, and
hollowness, and folly,' as I observed yesterday, I recollect!”
And smiling faintly, Sansoucy leaned back in his chair,
and pondered.
He was beginning to understand how completely he
had mistaken his own feelings in that famous soliloquy
which we have chronicled for the amusement of the reader.
In truth, Mr. Sansoucy was no exception to the rest of
the world: and his own views upon the nature of his
feelings were abundantly destitute of accuracy. He
thought and said to himself, that Aurelia had completely
changed—that she had grown frivolous—that she would
not make him happy as his wife—that he did not love her
in the least, and had for her, at best, only that dubious
liking which a man is apt to conceive toward a merry and
beautiful young lady, with whom he has many memories
and associations in common; but whose character is too
light to satisfy him, or make any deep impression upon
him. On the evening of the day which heard the utterance
of these views, Mr. Sansoucy went to see the young
lady who was so indifferent to him: and he found his
heart throb when she spoke to him in her kind, familiar
voice—his cheek flush with her own—his bosom fill with
the deepest tenderness as he looked into the soft blue
eyes, laden with unshed tears, and shining on him from
his youth. He had as wholly mistaken his own character,
too, in imagining that his heart had lost its freshness, his
—his heart not at all, or scarcely at all. Through a
thousand temptations and adverse influences this man's
character had retained its sincerity and truth—his temper
its sweetness;—his enthusiasm was still as easily excited,
and as warm as in his boyhood. Perhaps a few more
years of life in the whirl of an existence, which choked
out everything fresh and beautiful, might have worked
this change. But the child, Ellie, had come, and her
influence upon him was great. She had revived all those
recollections of his youth, which were fading—she had
taught him the beauty and glory of kindness—the benefits
he had bestowed upon her were a thousand times less than
those he had reaped from her—child as she was—perhaps
because she was a child.
When, therefore, he had sought Aurelia, it was the heart
of his boyhood which he brought her; the freshness of
the past which he offered her—the same affection he had
formerly experienced, which he felt.
Aurelia, on her side, brought to test the Ernest of the
present, just those feelings which had formerly influenced
her—the same simplicity—the same playful, yet modest
nature, the same innocence and goodness.
But we linger too long in prosaic explanations, which
the reader of this history probably does not need. Let
us come back to Mr. Sansoucy, who, after declaring that
the world is not a world of vanity, and hollowness, and
folly, ponders for a time, and then rises, and makes some
alterations in his toilette, and goes out.
As he leaves his chamber, he glances, with a smile, at
longer hangs, and mutters, “we shall see!”
It was a cold and brilliant morning—the sun made the
snow sparkle like a sea of ice—and the streets were alive
with sleighs, which tinkled merrily, and pedestrians, who
hailed each other as they passed with laughter and shiverings,
and hastened on.
Mr. Sansoucy soon reached Mr. Ashton's.
The two young ladies of tender age, whose brilliant red
cheeks have colored, in a degree, our narrative, ran forward
to receive him: and for some moments, Mr. Sansoucy
was very nearly pulled to pieces by the eager damsels.
“Where are our songs?” cried Bel.
“Now, Mr. Sansoucy!” echoed Lizzie.
“You know you promised!”
“And you never fail!”
“What a compliment!” cried Mr. Sansoucy, with great
delight. “I am decidedly popular here.”
“Indeed you are!”
“Are you sure?”
“I like you,” said Miss Bel rolling her large eyes at the
visitor, in a way which seemed to afford him inordinate
pleasure.
“But the grounds of this liking, madam?” he said, with
a modest air, “unaccustomed as I am to public speaking,
and unused as I am to receiving from ladies assurances of
a character similar to—”
“There, now! you are putting us off!” cried Miss Bel,
“you shan't!”
And the young lady plunged her hand into Mr. Sansoucy's
kisses, variegated cornucopias of candy, and good things
generally, procured by Mr. Sansoucy for his young friends.
“Oh, me! how nice!” cried Bel.
“Are they?”
“Yes—but I must put them back!”
And the hand would have restored its contents to the
pocket.
“No,” said Mr. Sansoucy, “at the risk of incurring
your eternal enmity for implying that your ladyship is still
a child, I must say that these things were intended for
you and Lizzie.”
And Mr. Sansoucy emptied his pockets of a perfect
wagon load of good things.
In the midst of the delighted clatter which this proceeding
caused, Aurelia entered, smiling and rosy, and
held out her little hand to her visitor.
“Still as fond of children as ever!” she said, smiling.
“Yes, indeed—you know it is an old failing.”
“Old?”
“We were great friends when a certain grown up lady
was a child.”
And Mr. Sansoucy gazed with admiration upon the
fresh face which plainly showed that its owner understood
perfectly.
“The girls will be delighted,” she said, smiling, “and
those verses?”
“Here they are.”
And Mr. Sansoucy drew from his pocket an envelope,
which he handed to Lizzie.
“Oh, let me see them, said Aurelia.
“Hum,” said Mr. Sansoucy, with an embarrassed air,
“I think I would rather you would wait.”
“Wait, sir! indeed, I wont—give me, Lizzie!”
And Aurelia took the envelope, opened it, and with a
flitting blush, which deepened as she went on, read the
verses. The first ran thus:
Forever through the livelong day,
And when the light of evening dies
They glitter still, as spray.
“Flickers and glides along the green
Declivities of endless waves—
Memories of glories that have been—
Like blossoms upon graves!
“Dear heart! I feel its beating now,
Dear cheek! it lies beside my own,
Dear fingers press my weary brow,
And love, from childhood grown.
“Strikes the full giant's height and cleaves,
The shadows of the present hour,
And stands, like golden Autumn sheaves
Of grain and blossom and flower.
“O, happy poet! present light
May fade and die, no care to thee!
Thou livest in what has passed from sight
In love and memory!”
“Very pretty,” said Miss Aurelia, coloring brilliantly,
“now let us see the other.”
The second paper contained but two verses, which were
in quite a different strain, and it was evident that the
poet—melancholy, in spite of his boasts, when he penned
good spirits. The verses were:
Or the sun set on the day
But Nature, like a nymph asleep,
A low melodious breathing keep,
And the joy of life shall stay—
Since scattering flowers from snowy hands
She came to me from other lands!
“The owl no more shall cry
Through the dim and dreary night,
But the flickering lark against a sky
Of gold, soar up, and faint and die,
Like a beam of fresher light!
Come angel! come and make my heart
Like a glad fountain throb and start!”
“Very poetical and affecting,” said Aurelia, with a
blush deeper than before, and a careful avoidance of Mr.
Sansoucy's eyes.
“I am glad you admire them,” said Sansoucy, sighing
and smiling. “I am quite sure that I would not submit
them to any other tribunal. If you approve them, they
are perfect.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Aurelia, blushing more deeply
still; but making him a little courtesy, “but what is this
which has fallen from your pocket—this paper?”
“A paper?”
“Yes—in taking out the verses it came too.”
And Aurelia picked it up.
“Why it is a tract!” she said.
“True! how singular—it has remained in my pocket
ever since!”
“Since?—since when?”
“Since reducing it into my possession. Look! `Faith,
Hope, and Charity'—all I admire and long for in the world.”
“How mysterious, sir!”
“You shall judge if there is any mystery—I'll tell you
all about it.”
“Will you?” said Aurelia, laughing.
“Certainly.”
And Mr. Sansoucy related the history of the paper
picked up on the morning he had descended the stairs of
Joe Lacklitter's mansion.
“Who could the lady have been?” said Aurelia,
smiling.
“Really, I can't imagine—her veil was impervious.”
“Was it?”
“Wholly.”
“And no other indication?
“Presented itself? Not the least, my dear Miss
Aurelia—except I observed the perfume of extract of
violets, as she passed.”
And Mr. Sansoucy looked intently at Miss Aurelia—
why, he scarcely knew. She had on a brown dress, and
the handkerchief she held was perfumed with violets.
“You don't say!” suddenly cried Mr. Sansoucy
“What, sir?”
“That the lady—”
“What do I know about her?”
And Miss Aurelia smiled mischievously.
“Can it be possible!”
“That she found any difficulty in passing you on the
stairs? I don't know, of course. Did you get your gloves?”
And triumphing over the dumbfounded Mr. Sansoucy,
Aurelia was radiant with smiles.
The last words ended all doubt. The gloves left by
Mr. Sansoucy upon the chair in Joe's room, were evidently
those alluded to—and the veiled lady was as certainly
Miss Aurelia. Sansoucy understood all at once—and
easily recalled the visit he had paid formerly with Ellie
to Aurelia—their absence for a quarter of an hour up
stairs, wrapping up the dress—and consequently the
probability that Ellie had told Aurelia where she lived,
and all about her uncle.
As Mr. Sansoucy afterwards discovered, Aurelia had
exacted a promise from the child that she would not speak
to Mr. Sansoucy of her visits—and so she had intended
it should always be concealed. The visitor's astonishment
now, had led Aurelia into a jest, which cleared up the
whole mystery.
“I do not wish any further explanation,” said Sansoucy,
looking at the young girl with a softness which made her
cheek color; “I am very glad you know my good little
Ellie. Now, will you get ready for our excursion?”
Aurelia was glad to get away for an instant, and when
she returned, her face was as merry as before: and Mr.
Sansoucy's also.
The young ladies, Bel and Lizzie, had entertained him
with many amusing ideas and opinions, in the interim;
and such juvenile interviews never failed to put this
gentleman in a good humor, and fill his face with
laughter. The children kissed Aurelia, shook hands
with Mr. Sansoucy—and the door closed.
16. CHAPTER XVI.
WHAT AURELIA SAW AND HEARD AT THE PICTURE
GALLERY.
Aurelia presented the brightest and most beautiful
appearance imaginable:—indeed, her cheeks were so
rosy, her eyes so blue, her hair so brilliant in the sunlight,
which made it resemble threads of gold, that Mr. Sansoucy
found his free will leaving him more rapidly than
even he anticipated. It was not her beauty, however,
which subdued this man, long used to fair faces and bright
eyes, and unaffected by them. It was the young girl's
innocence and goodness, her tender playfulness and utter
sincerity which chained him.
Mr. Sansoucy was no longer his own master.
They traversed thus the chill, brilliant streets, among
the crowd of wayfarers, and soon reached the picture
gallery.
It was simply a long apartment and a smaller one, in
which were arranged numerous fine paintings in oil, which
the public were invited to come and admire, at a very
moderate charge, at all hours of the day and for half of
the night.
The rooms were thronged with that diverse crowd which
represents, at all public spectacles, the vast army of sight
seers—and every one seemed to be interested and entertained.
There were old grey-headed men, who stood
stoutly before a picture and seemed to defy it to excite in
them the least admiration—there were little girls, who
with muffotees, and who, escaping from mamma, danced
in delight before a “little love of a baby” holding out its
chubby arms, and babbling—plainly on the canvass!—
to the smiling matron hanging over it. There were boys,
too, corrugating their faces in sympathetic appreciation
of a skating scene, in which an unfortunate urchin had
just produced that appearance in the ice called, technically,
a “star,” with his head—and whose countenance expressed
a height of misery affecting in the extreme. There were,
besides, young ladies of fifteen in their first long dresses,
and with curls bound up for this occasion, woman fashion,
who promenaded full of dignity, escorted by young gentlemen
of seventeen, with patent leather shoes which tortured
them, and standing collars, sawing through their ears, and
glossy hats borne gallantly beneath the arm: and this
class of the visitors would pause before the pictures celebrating
Paul's devotion to Virginia—or the deathless love
of the Moorish fire worshippers—before anything which
indicated everlasting faithfulness and gallantry. Last
of all came a few gentlemen of elegant appearance accompanied
by ladies still more elegant—and when the eyeglasses
of these visitors were levelled at the pictures, Titian
blenched, and Poussin hid his head—Murillo cowered
before them—and even Raphael, with all his glorious
tenderness, failed—passing like a dream away. That was
the real ordeal, and foremost among the dreadful connoisseurs,
was Heartsease.
Aurelia and Mr. Sansoucy passed through the crowd,
and exchanging greetings with many friends, made the
unusually fine copies—some of them indeed, originals.
They paused for some time before a picture, which was
painted with a rude vigor and breadth of design, which
produced a strange effect. It was one of the old Hebrew
prophets, with gaunt but muscular face, deep, cavernous
eyes, and hoary beard bending down towards a parchment,
upon which with a reed he traced the mystic sentences of
his prophecy. The parchment rested upon a stone, the
writer was on his knees, which his coarse robe half concealed;
and in the back-ground a bloody sunset reared its
huge battlements of crimson cloud, as though to typify the
woes denounced on the Hebrews by the pen of the writer.
The effect was so strong—the brow and eyes of the prophet
were so stern and yet awestruck, as he wrote—his
shoulders bent so low, almost crouching, beneath the
mighty weight of what flowed on him—that Aurelia and
her companion did not move for many minutes—silent
before that supreme spectacle of man, face to face with the
Almighty.
It was just as Aurelia returned to the world around her,
with a sigh, that she heard an amiable and languid voice
say gently:
“A good thing that, my dear Miss Ashton—isn't it?
Observe that toe bent back so naturally!—A fine piece
of coloring.”
And Heartsease, amiably simpering, held out his kid
glove to Sansoucy.
“Oh, Mr. Heartsease! what a criticism!” said Aurelia.
“You are surprised?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Well, I thought you knew I was a connoisseur, my
dear Miss Ashton!”
“Are you, sir?”
“I should think so! I flatter myself that excellent
detail of the picture—the toe—would not have struck an
indifferent observer. Say now, did you notice it?”
“Indeed, no! said Aurelia, who was beginning to experience
a strong desire to laugh at the unsuspecting self-satisfaction
of Mr. Heartsease, “Indeed, I did not.”
“I thought so,” said Heartsease, with a good-humored
air, “it is more than we can expect of young ladies—”
“What, sir?”
“A knowledge of the details of art—those trifles apparently
by which it nevertheless achieves its greatest
triumphs.”
And Heartsease levelled his eye-glass at the toe, and
smiled.
“A little too much shadow under the nose,” he said,
raising his glass, “and the chiaroscuro of the lower portion
of the sky is too deep—but on the whole the general effect
is eminently pleasing. Ah, my dear Miss Emmeline!
your most devoted slave—ta, ta! my—Gosyp, you know,”
he whispered: and aloud, “dear Sansoucy, how I envy
you your companion!”
And kissing his fingers, Heartsease joined a lady who
had just entered, and disappeared in the crowd, smiling
and graceful, and full of the most delightful good humor.
“What a character!” said Aurelia, laughing, “he
amuses me to death.”
“Does he?” said Sansoucy, smiling.
“Yes, indeed.”
“Then I think you will not repent your walk.”
“Repent it?”
“Yes—for really I do not see much difference between
myself and Mr. Heartsease—we are both dilletanti.”
“Oh, how can you be so unjust!”
“Unjust?”
“To yourself.”
“I am not.”
“Indeed you are—a thousand times unjust.”
Sansoucy sighed and shook his head, with a faint smile.
“I believe I have some opinions which Mr. Heartsease
does not hold—but I had better beware how I arrogate any
credit on that point. It is very natural that you should
take my part—we have been friends so long, you know.”
“Yes, very long.”
“Do you ever think of old times?”
“Oh, yes.”
And for a moment the young girl's head sank.
“What a pity it is that we cannot return to them?”
he said, softly.
“I'm afraid we cannot,” she murmured, with a blush,
and a timid glance, which was the very perfection of
frankness and innocence.
“Will you try?”
“Yes,” she murmured.
“Come, then,” said Mr. Sansoucy, placing the little
hand upon his arm; “I will assist you.”
And he led the way into the smaller apartment of the
hung, and which the crowd, for a moment, had deserted.
As Sansoucy led the way into this apartment, a sudden
and inconceivably rapid thought made his heart throb,
and his cheek flush. If she did not feel the throb, did
not see the blush, she was without feeling, and blind—
but Aurelia did not exhibit any such knowledge.
Need we explain the cause of Mr. Ernest Sansoucy's
sudden emotion—need we say that like an honest fellow,
he had thought suddenly that she would go back to that
youth with him forever, if he held out his arms and said
“Come! come! Aurelia!”
He stopped before a little picture hanging by the
window, pointed to it, and said in a low voice:
“Do you recognize it?”
She started, and colored to the roots of her hair, and
murmured:
“It is—it is—!”
She could go no further.
“It is what I have kept always since that moment as
my dearest treasure!” said Mr. Sansoucy, unable to
control his feelings; “as my blessing, and my consolation!
It has gone with me every where, and made me
pure! It has never left me, and never will; for it will
lie upon my bosom when I am pale and cold, Aurelia!”
And his gaze, full of infinite tenderness, made her raise
her eyes, and look at him with tears and blushes.
“Aurelia! let me, like an honest gentleman—like
Ernest—the Ernest of your childhood—speak to you!
You are not prepared for this—I did not intend it—but
be my blessing, my treasure, my dear wife!”
And Sansoucy felt the heart throb beneath his arm
upon which her hand rested—saw her eyes fill with tears
of love and tenderness—took the small hand in his, and
nothing more was needed.
Heart spoke to heart, and laughed at such poor things
as words. And so it always will be, O, my friends! who
seriously investigate these deep, mysterious subjects!
The flood slowly rises—a trifle like the picture of Aurelia
in her childhood, makes it flow over—and then, with a
single look, a pressure of the hand, the terrible ordeal is
passed through. The fine speeches made by lovers at
full length in numerous romances, are forgotten; and the
Rubicon is passed.
Aurelia and Ernest certainly thus passed that renowned
stream, and entering beneath the fair Italian skies of love
and sunshine, did not know they walked home over ice, and
through a bitter wind. The world from that time forth was
warmth and light—the spring had come, to reign forever.
17. CHAPTER XVII.
FINISHES MR. HEARTSEASE.
Following the want of romance writers in all ages, we
might here close up our history with the striking picture
of the incorrigible bachelor, Sansoney, safely landed on
the smiling shores of matrimony.
But this history unfortunately has busied itself about
other persons, and their adventures—and an event of no
small importance in the life of even Mr. Sansoucy, has yet
to be described and chronicled. We are thus compelled
to ask the kind reader to follow us still, spite of the length
to which his journey has extended; and in this further progress
we promise not to call his attention to a single personage
he has not made the acquaintance of already.
To present the remaining scenes of our narrative in
their full connection, and as distinctly as we can, we shall
return to Mr. Sansoucy, who sits in his office on the day
after the event just described, and in a frame of mind, not
different from what might be expected “under the circumstances,”
as say romantic historians of their heroes.
In other words, Mr. Sansoucy was supremely happy.
The whole world seemed to him bright and beautiful; and
a thousand voices seemed to sing to him, “Be happy! be
happy! happiness like yours is rarely given to the children
of this earth—be happy!”
And Sansoucy applied himself assiduously to the not
difficult task—and looked out with a smile upon the
cold bright snow—and felt the spring within his heart
warm all the bitter winter, thrusting up its blossoms and
bright flowers through all, and reigning queen of all!
He was sunk in one of those reveries which follow happiness
like a shadow, when a rapid step ascended the
stairs, and almost hastening—actually almost hastening—
into the room, Mr. Heartsease held out his hand, and
sighed with a brilliant smile:
“Give me joy, my friend! congratulate me on my bliss!”
“Your bliss, my dear Heartsease?” said Sansoucy,
“certainly! Oh, certainly! but what is it?”
“Haven't you heard?”
“No, indeed.”
“I forgot, my friend,” said Heartsease; “nobody
knows it—it has not been done an hour—”
“Not been done!”
“Assuredly not.”
“Nobody knows it?”
“Unless the respectable guardian of the lady:”
“Oh! the lady!”
“Certainly, the lady! Don't you understand?”
“Oh, perfectly! that is not at all.”
“Really,” said Heartsease, reproachfully, “the way a
man is treated by his friends: but I will not complain.
Learn then, my dear Sansoucy, that you see before you
the prospective husband of the beautiful Miss Gosyp.”
“Miss Gosyp!”
Emmeline, I call her. Her name is Emma; but I add
the line for euphony; though there are cynics who might
think I alluded to her delicacy and fragility of figure.”
“Miss Gosyp!” said Sansoucy, unable to repress his
surprise and laughter; “why you told me a month or two
ago that she had worried you to death.”
“A month or two, my dear fellow, is much further than
I can remember.”
“Ah?”
“Yes; and, doubtless, that annoyance, and the satire,
which I now recall, sprung from jealousy at seeing me
attentive to another.”
“Miss Gosyp—the antediluvian!” said Sansoucy, quoting
Heartsease.
“Oh, my friend! don't recall to me my terrible speeches;
you fill me with remorse.”
Sansoucy laughed.
“Congratulate me, rather.”
“Certainly, my dear fellow; and one thing is certain,
that your wife to be will not need your income, or any
part of it.”
“You allude to her wealth?”
“Yes.”
Heartsease shook his head.
“Such considerations have no weight with me,” he
said, sighing; “what I adore in Emmeline is her loveliness
of soul and brilliant wit.”
“Good! take care of that brilliant wit, my dear fellow!”
“Take care?”
“Or it will cut you.”
“Oh, no, never!” sighed Heartsease, rising; “I look
forward to a life of tranquil and domestic happiness.
Emmeline will not be witty with me, for I shall make a
model husband. I shall remain quietly at home every
evening—I shall become a thoroughly domestic character
—I shall rule my household with the mingled dignity and
kindness of a patriarch. Wives will point to me, and say
“look at him!” and Emmeline will bless the day she
placed her beautiful hand in mine and made me happy!”
Having uttered this speech with great gravity, Heartsease
pleaded the necessity of carrying the delightful
fingers, glided away—sighing and smiling to the last—
from the office of Sansoucy and from the present history.
But, perhaps, we may as well add, in this place, that
the result of wedlock in the case of Mr. Heartsease was
not so admirable and striking as he predicted. Instead
of leading a tranquil life, the joyous Heartsease grew more
fashionable than ever—instead of finding Emmeline a
tender spouse, he found her a terrible plague:—instead
of remaining quietly at home in the long winter evenings,
ruling his household with the dignity of a patriarch, and
causing Emmeline to triumph over other wives, and bless
the day she laid her lily hand in his, the gay and philosophic
Heartsease never staid at home, and caused the gentle
Emmeline to objurgate the happy day alluded to. Wherever
ball, or festival, or play was, there was Heartsease—still the
most amiable of butterflies, the most perfect of good fellows.
Never did a cloud pass over his serene and handsome
features—from his lofty height and dark curls, hyacinthine
still, as in his bachelor days, he looked down on the world,
and smiled, and lived his life. His only subject of enthusiasm
was Emmeline—for whom, he said, his tenderness
was so extreme, that nothing but his absence from her,
gave him any peace of mind. Having told you this with
the gentlest and most touching eloquence, the handsome
Heartsease would adjourn to billiards—thence to dinner
and his wine—then to a mild cigar, and other things
promotive of digestion and a tranquil conscience:—and
then at night you would meet him waltzing at the ball
with the gayest and most graceful languor—talking in
slight indisposition made it necessary for her to remain
at home. If occasionally his dearest Emmeline spoke
harshly to him, for his losses at the fascinating cards, he
did not answer again. Supreme in his good humor, and
unruffled by the strongest gales of matrimony, Heartsease
with his old sweet smile, would kiss his hand, and go
away to the theatre, and be the pride and ornament of
that bright universe. When last we had the pleasure of
beholding him, he stood, superlatively dressed, applauding,
with a gentle beating of his yellow kid fingers Misses
Kate and Ellen Bateman, whose performance he approved.
It was perhaps the most rational thing the amiable
Heartsease ever did—and there we leave him.
17. CHAPTER XVII.
“SHE IS NOT HERE.”
Sansoucy had resumed his reverie, and was fast forgetting
the existence of Mr. Heartsease, and, indeed, of
all the world besides, but one personage—Aurelia—when
a second step was heard ascending the stairs, and a
modest tap at the door, requested permission to enter.
Sansoucy sighed, and entered a silent protest against
the inimical fate which thus took pleasure in breaking
the chain of his bright thoughts: but still true to his
patient and yielding temper, he said, quietly, “Come in.”
The door opened, and little Ellie entered, with a modest
intruding herself upon the attention of her friend, to the
prejudice of his occupations.
But Mr. Sansoucy no sooner caught sight of Ellie,
than his expression of patient submission disappeared;
and rising, with a smile of pleasure, he took the hand of
the child, and made her sit down by him.
“Well, Ellie,” he said; “pray, how are you, to-day?”
“I am very well, thank you, sir,” said the child, in her
soft, gentle voice.
“And Joe?”
“Oh, uncle is well, sir, and I never can thank you
for—”
“Well, never do. I like you, and my friend, Joe.”
“Uncle is very dear to me, sir.”
“That is because you are an affectionate and warmhearted
little creature, Ellie; it is a pleasure to do you
the least kindness, your gratitude is such a treasure.”
“Oh, sir!” said Ellie, with a glad look in her eyes:
“indeed, you make me very happy, and I am very
grateful.”
“But you have more friends to be grateful to than me,
Ellie,” replied Sansoucy, with a bright smile.
“More friends, sir?”
“Yes—the lady—”
“Oh, you know then, sir; I was so sorry I could not
tell you.”
“Why did you not?”
“She told me not to, sir—and you know she had the
right to ask much more than that.”
“Yes, indeed—and I, too, had the right to ask, if not
you, her for—”
And Sansoucy, with the gayety of a boy, looked at
Ellie, and smiled.
“To ask her, sir—?”
But Mr. Sansoucy did not make a direct reply to the
child's words or looks.
“Ellie,” he said, “would you like to see me married?”
“Married, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Would it make you happier, sir?”
“Yes, I think so—I think it will.”
“Oh, then, sir, I should love to see you married!”
This reply delighted Mr. Sansoucy beyond measure,
and he said:
“Suppose it was Miss Aurelia?”
“Is it, sir?”
“Yes,” said Sansoucy.
“Oh, I'm so glad, sir!” said Ellie, “she is so kind and
sweet.
Mr. Sansoucy caressed the brown hair of the child,
gently, with his hand, and said, with a look of radiant
happiness:
“Your pleasure, Ellie, makes my own greater. Yes,
Aurelia is more kind and sweet than any one I know in
all the world, and I shall be very happy if God lets me
be. I learned to put in that proviso from yourself, my
child—and that was a happy day when I met you—met
you, and talked with you, to learn from you the duties I
am called to, as a Christian gentleman—and some day
and pray for me, and that is more than all I could do for
you, Ellie.”
“Oh, sir! you saved my life! indeed, indeed! I pray
always for you! Oh, indeed, I never can do anything for
you—but that!”
And greatly affected by the kind words of Mr. Sansoucy,
Ellie's eyes filled with moisture, making them swim
in tender light, as she gazed timidly upon his face.
“What a simple, grateful heart you have, Ellie,” he
said, “I know your grateful feelings, but I do not deserve
them. Now tell me all about everything.”
“That is why I came, sir.”
“For what, Ellie?”
“I'm afraid Lucia is sick, sir, and requires the doctor.”
“Lucia?”
“The little orphan-girl, sir, whose father died early in
the winter.”
“Oh, I have heard you speak of her—and I saw her
once, I think.”
“Yes, sir.”
“She is beautiful—with long, dark hair—fair skin, and
black eyes—is she not?”
“Yes, sir—she is lovely, and so good! Oh, sir, she is
so good, and my heart bleeds for her.”
“How, Ellie!”
“She has suffered so much, sir. I tried to do all that
I could, and Sam and all: but she has got sick, and I
was made uneasy about her last night and this morning—”
“Is she much sick?”
“I am afraid so, sir: her face is so thin and pale—
oh! so thin and pale, and sweet. When she smiles, she
looks like a spirit, or what I think one is like!”
“Ah—so bad?”
“I think her mind has been wandering to-day, sir—
last night, when she kissed me, too, she said, `Ellie, do
you think the violets have come up'—”
“Violets?”
“Yes, sir—I think she and Sam were talking about
gathering violets some time ago, when the spring came.”
“Poor child!”
“I told her,” continued Ellie, “that they would soon be
up: and then she asked me if any violets grew in heaven—
oh, sir! I feel so badly about Lucia—for I love her
dearly—!”
“Come, then, Ellie, we will go for the doctor. I will
send Doctor Fossyl to Lucia, at once, though he would
take no pay for his attendance on your uncle. Come, my
child—poor Lucia!—come, we will go.”
And hastily wrapping himself up, Mr. Sansoucy, yielding
to his pity, descended the stairs, and followed by
Ellie, took his way toward the office of Doctor Fossyl.
The doctor bent his head, as he chewed, vigorously, an
old, dry crust, which, with a ham bone, served him for
dinner; and then asking Ellie about Lucia's condition,
fully, got into his carriage, which waited, and drove off.
Sansoucy followed him, with the child, and forgetting
his own dinner, sought, with her, the abode of Lucia.
The doctor met them on the threshold, and said:
“She is not here.”
As he spoke, Mr. Sansoucy felt a weight upon his arm,
and looking down, saw that Ellie was pale and faint.
19. CHAPTER XIX.
LUCIA GATHERS HER FLOWERS.
The sun came up that morning with a beauteous splendor,
such as August, in its loveliest hours of dawn-illumined
foliage, might have envied; and though Winter
laughed at him—the bitter, harsh old Winter!—still he
shone; and making all the vast, bleak fields of snow shine
as he came, went onward to his noon.
Mounting, he shone on Lucia, with her pale, sweet face,
and gentle smile, bending above her fire, and dreaming,
with a look fixed far away, of some bright land—some
far, bright land—and smiling at the happy vision of her
heart, and reaching out her arms toward it gladly, as a
child toward the object of its love.
Raising her head—so faint now and so beautiful—a
holier and happier light than any on this poor, cold earth
we live on, shone in the tender eyes; and on her lips the
lovely smile was eloquent of dreams, showing her visions
of love and happiness.
The sun rose higher, and the dear friend of her heart
came in and comforted her, and made the fire burn
brighter, and talked with her—but so sadly! ah, so sadly!
Was she not sick? Oh, no—so very well, though weak;
said she had better cover herself and sleep, and she would
go for the doctor. And so she went.
The doctor! Why should she want the doctor! She
was well and happy—very well, and oh, so very happy!
And then gazing on the sun, now soaring up in beauteous
splendor, she rose from her seat, and clasped her hands
and smiled, and tears of happiness flowed from her eyes—
tears of deep gratitude for what she felt towards the Giver
of this beauty.
Faintly, with absent eyes, as in a dream, she looked
upon the bright, gay, sparkling snow; and through it all
she seemed to see the flowers of spring, blooming on
grassy banks, by laughing streams—and the chill blast
was tempered to a sighing, warm south breeze, which agitated
tender foliage, in beautiful woods—and in the azure
skies of thought, the lark soared, joyously singing his
clear song of praise to Him who made the world so bright
and beautiful.
“Spring violets! how beautiful they are!” she murmured,
smiling; “they are waiting to be gathered—
beautiful violets, like the flowers of heaven!”
And looking toward the door, she seemed to see a
smiling form, which beckoned to her and said, come!”
She passed out smiling, and descended, and was in the
streets—and wandered on beneath the rich red rays of the
merry sun, toward the laughing fields.
How merry was the sun! How tenderly it lingered on
her form, and flooded all the street, and shone on every
wayfarer alike. It shone on lawyers going to their offices,
eager about invoices. It streamed upon a hundred
jovial citizens, returning with their trophies from the
market there below—and then returning to the little
organ-girl, entangled itself merrily in her dark, curling
hair, and filled her heart with joy and happiness. The
merry sun! He laughed so gleefully upon the shifting
weather-cocks, and on the tall, white, crimson-flooded
spires, which pointed up to heaven—and on the wings of
snowy pigeons, cutting the blue air, and circling joyously—and
on the little maiden, tripping on along the
street, toward school, and laughing merrily like him.
Lucia looked at her with a happy smile, and knew her
for the little dame whose uncle Robert was to make the
tableaus—and as now her sparkling eyes, and rosy cheeks
and lips, and golden curls, were lit up by the sun, until
she seemed to be the image of pure joy and loveliness, the
heart of Lucia went toward her as she came, and loved
her for her tender purity and beauty.
She came on thus, her merry eyes lighting up the
street—and looking at Lucia's thin face with a pitying
gaze, passed onward, without recognizing her again. And
so the distance twinkled with her little feet, so delicately
cased in red morocco, and her satchel, as she drew near
school, was swung more merrily—and then the corner
came between, and she was gone—and Lucia was happier
than before, for having seen that pretty, tender child.
The sun came to his noon, and bathed the world in glory,
and then waned away toward his setting, streaming still
on Lucia as he went to the west, and following her in all
fields. The snow-clad fields! so bleak and vast, and
chill—where yet the violets and birds of spring were plain
to the child's vision, as she went on from the city.
So the sun faded, waning slowly over the white fields,
to his setting—smiling still upon the child, as though he
were not carrying away with him the warmth and life of
the great day—the warmth and life, too, from the frame
of the child.
As Lucia gazed upon the fading splendor of the west,
it seemed so beautiful—and then she thought how happy
she would be if heaven had given her some little brother
or sister to take to her heart, and play with, and tell all
about the happiness she felt. They would be so happy
now—the fair, warm days were coming—in the fields,
running o'er flowery meadows, and beneath the shade of
pretty trees, where violets grew and smiled.
And so the sun waned, fading slowly, and flushing for
the last time, the child's tender face, went from the
world:—and night advanced, with all its bitter winds—
and Lucia was faint.
She sat down on a bank, from which the snow had
melted, leaving the spring grass to grow: and leaning on
her arm, half thought, half dreamed:—half dreamed, for
was she not upon the border land of sleep? She saw so
many bright faced ones above her beckoning to her; and
they floated over her on long, still wings, and murmured
ever to her with calm, happy voices, bending over her
with smiles of infinite love. She heard so many dear,
sweet voices, whispering from the past—she felt upon her
like a blade of steel, her mother's tender fingers, and her
father's kiss; and happy airs from lands of beauty and
delight, remembered dimly—dimly as in a dream—fanned
her pale brow, and made her happy.
She surely dreamed! for there, distinctly, was the quiet,
smiling home beneath beautiful skies—left years and years
ago, when but a little baby, but remembered well:—there,
plainly, were the places they had tarried in—the various
scenes of all her pilgrimage. They melted softly into one
dim haze at last—the quiet home—the splendid buildings,
and great seas, and sun-lit streets, and merry music,
played for laughing children—all melted finally in one
soft dreamy haze; and then she saw the smiling fields of
spring, happy and beautiful, and full of flowers, which
waved in gentle winds, and beckoned to her, smiling on
her as she came.
A soft and caressing atmosphere seemed to lie on the
beautiful fields she saw—a light, more pure than any
earthly light, poured on the smiling slopes,—and from
the distance, like a dream of joy and beauty, came a
figure, as of a bright shepherd, smiling on her with a love
and tenderness which words could not express.
The child's face flushed with a splendor that was
dazzling—her dim eyes glowed, then veiled their light—
and stretching out her arms toward the vision, she half
rose, with a sigh of happiness, which the chill wind bore
far away, but could not drown. The effort exhausted all
her strength—she sank back on the earth—the figure
came to her, and held out tender arms—and with a smile
her.
The bitter wind was powerless now, with all his
strength—the spring had come—the child had gathered
violets, more beautiful than any upon earth—in fields
more bright and happy than the minds of men have
dreamed of—immortal flowers of happiness and peace,
such as grow only in the smiling fields of heaven.
20. CHAPTER XX.
THE NOTE AND THE PACKAGE WITH THE CONSEQUENCES.
A week after these events, Sansoucy sat late at night
in his office, thinking sadly of the fate of Lucia, and pondering,
as all men do at some time of their lives, upon the
mystery, and strangeness of the great system, which illustrated
itself thus, by what seemed so discouraging to faith
and hope.
He ceased at last to think upon the matter, and gave
up the struggle. That struggle of his mind and heart
would surely never have taken place, if he had known the
vision of the child—he would have seen without difficulty
that what seemed death was life; that what to him appeared
to be a cruel and terrible misfortune, was, in truth,
the act of an all-wise and supremely merciful power; and
that the faintness in which she passed away, was but the
cloud hiding the everlasting light.
He dismissed all these thoughts at last, however—he
when they followed her footsteps and saw all—of the
weeping boy, as he stood beside the hillock on the hill,
across the river, where she had asked them to lay her—of
the tears shed by Aurelia, when he told her of the sad event.
His own future busied his thoughts, and he again read
the letter from his father, lying on his knee, and mused.
It said how happy his marriage with Aurelia would make
every one at Sunnyside—how his mother, who would write
to him immediately, sent him her love and blessing—and
how he must now give up his editorial life and come and
aid the failing strength of his father, in the management
of the estate, which needed him. All this, Sansoucy read
again and attentively considered. His whole heart assented
to this future, and thinking of Aurelia, he was beginning
to smile again, when a step ascended—stopped at his
door—and without knocking or asking his permission
a woman entered.
It was the miserably clad woman, whom he had nearly
run over, on the day of his sleigh-ride.
“You!” said Sansoucy, “you, at last! and at this
late hour!”
“All hours are the same to me,” said the woman, sinking
into a seat, and covering her face, “I like the midnight
better than morning.”
Sansoucy gazed at her in astonishment, and saw that
her breast heaved beneath the tattered wrapping of her
person.
“You excited my curiosity strangely, when we met some
weeks ago,” he said, “you seemed to know my father.”
“Yes,” murmured the woman, “I knew you were his
son.”
“How?”
“From the likeness.”
“When did you know him?—what is this mystery?—
speak! for you are evidently sane!”
“I doubt it sometimes,” said the woman, in a low voice,
“I have had enough to try my brain.”
“Enough!”
“That is I have been guilty of enough—”
Sansoucy gazed closely at her, and said:
“Guilty!”
“Yes,” she murmured, hoarsely, “deeply guilty, and
toward you—toward your father—toward your mother,
and all your family!”
The woman paused, and seemed to be overwhelmed with
emotion. Mr. Sansoucy gazed at her with the profoundest
astonishment, and was silent.
“This is all folly in me,” said the woman, regaining
her voice, and speaking with more distinctness, “I did
not come here to make you pity me—I came to try and
ask you to help me—to do away with the consequences of
my crime. It affects you, sir, and if you will listen, I will
tell you all.
Mr. Sansoucy remained silent, and lost in astonishment.
He gazed for some moments at the woman, who seemed
to avoid his eye, and then seeing that she waited for some
reply, said:
“Speak! I will listen.”
“Do not interrupt me.”
“I will endeavor not to—but speak! A crime! and
a crime connected with my family—speak!”
“Yes—connected with your family ten years ago.”
“Ten years!—”
“Listen, sir, and I will explain everything,” said the
woman, and pausing to collect her strength, she went on:
“Ten years ago, your mother engaged as a nurse for her
baby, a woman who was the wife of a German laborer,
whom she had married, and who was so poor that she was
obliged to leave him, and take some separate employment
to support herself—gain daily bread. Your mother heard
of this woman, who was an American woman, in this great
poverty—and from motives of charity—she engaged her
to nurse her own child, which her bad health rendered it
impossible for her to do herself. The woman had lost her
only child, herself, a short time before—and she was glad
to gain employment which promised to maintain her in
comfort. She had no feeling higher than that—she was
dull and gross, but a woman of violent and bitter passions
when she was aroused; she never forgave any one, and
had frequently come to blows with her husband whom she
despised and ruled, for he became afraid of her at last.”
Sansoucy gazed with a vague look of wonder at the
woman, as though a thought were struggling in his mind
to which he could not give words.
“The woman went to your father's,” his visitor continued,
hoarsely; “and for a time was perfectly satisfied,
and lived more happily than she had ever done before.
But gradually she found reasons to dislike her employer—
he was a high-minded man, but with a temper when he
let me get through!—and this violence of temper upon
both sides caused the woman and Mr. Sansoucy to quarrel
more than once. The woman was afraid of losing her
situation, and kept down her feelings—that is she did not
utter them—but they were all the more violent on that
account from being suppressed. Her habits were bad
sometimes—she had acquired a fondness for brandy in her
poverty—and whenever Mr. Sansoucy found that she had
been drinking anything, his anger knew no bounds.
“Things went on in this way for more than six months,”
continued the speaker; “and all this time the woman's
hatred and revengeful passions had been increasing, and
growing more bitter and black. She began to think how
she could be revenged upon him—let me, speak, sir! if
you start so I can't go on. She thought of a dozen ways
to revenge herself on him, but was afraid to do anything,
and waited. One day, however, she drank more brandy
than usual, and came in with the baby in her arms reeling.
Mr. Sansoucy was already nettled about something, and
his passions were driven to fury by the sight of the
woman's condition. He tore the baby from her arms—
struck her on the face with his open hand, and taking her
by the shoulder, dragged her out of the room and threw
her off like a dog. This made the cup run over—her
drunkenness gave way to a fury and thirst for revenge so
deep that she grew almost mad. She made up her things
in a bundle—went into the nursery at night—and while
all were sleeping took the sleeping child, and carried it
away with her, and in spite of all pursuit, gained this city,
revenge! Your eyes are like fire, sir! but let me go
on—don't look at me! From this place the woman, who
had schooling and knew very well how to write, wrote a
letter to your father, taunting him with his failure to find
her, and declaring that she would sail that day to a
foreign country, and place the child in the hands of those
who would beat and cripple and starve it, and bring it up
to all the vices of a great city—she would do this if she
did not kill it, as she had the right to do in return for his
blow—her letter said all this, sir.”
The woman trembled from head to foot as she spoke,
and did not dare to look at Mr. Sansoucy, whose eyes
glared in his deadly pale face, like coals of fire.
“Go—on!” he said, hoarsely.
“The woman did sail,” the visitor continued; “she did
go to foreign parts in a trading sloop, which sailed that
very day—”
“And took the child!” cried Mr. Sansoucy, seizing her
wrist and speaking through his clenched teeth; “dare to
say!—”
“She left it behind,” said the woman, trembling; “but
you frighten me, sir!—”
Sansoucy drew back and clutched the arm of his chair,
until the wood cracked.
“Go on!” he said, hoarsely.
“The woman was afraid—she was poor—she knew that
the letter itself was a bitter revenge—she wrapped the
child just as it was in a blanket, and on the night she
sailed—left it lying at the door of a poor-looking house,
this place. She got her passage in the sloop by agreeing
to work and help—and she staid away long enough to
drink the dregs of misery and want. She then felt how
despicable she was—she determined to come back, and
try to restore the child; she met its elder brother, and
was nearly killed by his horses as she deserved—I was
the woman, and you can punish me as you choose!”
She stopped—breathing heavily, and avoiding his eye.
“I tried to find the child—I have been searching day
and night,” she added hoarsely; “we did not live here,
then, though my husband has moved here, now. I did
not take notice of the street. I do not know if the child
is alive, even. I come to tell you that the rest remains
with you; I have done all I could. I have bitterly
repented, and am ready to submit to any thing you order,
or any punishment you inflict!”
Her head sank as she uttered these nearly inaudible
words, and she dared not look at Mr. Sansoucy. At
last she raised her eyes, and gazed, almost with terror
upon him. His face was as pale as death—his lips—
gnawed until they bled, that his emotion should not carry
him away—were tightly drawn over his closed teeth, and
his eyes burned into the woman's very brain with a terrible
intensity of anger, horror, and disgust.
But this expression yielded, in a few moments, to one
of pain and anguish: and, turning away his head, he
said, with a hoarse moan:
“Go! you have brought up all we have suffered by
your crime, again—go! My sister is dead!—or, if not
go from me!”
And he pointed to the door with such agony and sternness,
that the woman was driven, as it were, by his look,
and heavily, step after step, with her eyes fixed upon him,
obeyed and disappeared.
Sansoucy's face sank in his hands, and from the bottom
of his heart a passionate sob tore its way to his lips: and
he cried, in a tone of cruel anguish:
“Oh, my sister!—oh, my poor, poor mother!”
The long hours of the night passed over him one by
one, and the last found him in the same position as at
first—his face covered with his hands, his breast heaving,
his fingers wet with tears, which streamed between them,
speaking with that dreadful eloquence, which, in such
eyes, they possess. There are tears which, as they fall,
seem to burn and flame up, like some terrible acid,
poisonous and frightful—let those who cause such, beware
what they do.
Morning came at last, and, still motionless, Sansoucy
revolved in his feverish brain, the course which he should
pursue. He would move heaven and earth, but he would
know where his sister was, or when and how she had
died—he would throw from him everything, love and
business, and hope and memory; that search should
absorb his life, and he would force the secret from the
very jaws of silence! As he rose, pale and calm, a voice
at his door, made him start.
It was a servant, who held in his hand a note.
“What is it?” he said.
“From Miss Aurelia, sir.”
He took it, and opened it.
“And this I was to give you, too, sir,” added the servant,
giving Mr. Sansoucy a small package.
Mr. Sansoucy caught it from his hand, and motioning
him away abruptly, sank into a chair, and tore open the
package.
The note told him, that in handling the lace cap she
had received as a prize at the fair, she had found in the
lining—carefully sewed in—what she had sent him.
The package contained the baby's lace cap, and in a
small piece of white tissue paper, a little flat golden clasp
for the arm of a child.
Upon this plate was engraved, in distinct letters,
“Ellen Sansoucy,”
For a moment, Mr. Sansoucy felt as if he was about to
faint: then he rose like a giant, and, seizing his hat, went
hastily down stairs.
With inconceivable rapidity he hurried to Mr. Ashton's
—learned where the books of the Fair, containing the
names of contributors were to be found; discovered from
them that the lace cap, with the rest of the dress, had
been contributed to the table where the lottery was held,
by Monsieur Guillemot's friend, Madam “Angelique,” as
he called her:—and then, devoured with excitement, he
leaped into a carriage, and bade the driver gallop to the
shop. Ten minutes after entering it, he had learned that
the dress had been pawned—the shopkeeper recollected
very well that it had been brought by Ellie; and five
minutes after receiving this information, Mr. Sansoucy
whose face he covered with his kisses and his tears.
Ellen Lacklitter was Ellen Sansoucy, his long-lost
little sister.
21. CHAPTER XXI.
THE STRUGGLE.
Here we might end our history definitely, with the
picture of love and charity rewarded, even on earth—with
Ellie pressed to her kind brother's heart, and very happy.
We might properly arrest, at this point, our story, and
leave all those explanations, involved in every chronicle,
to the imagination of the sympathizing reader.
But, perhaps, it will be better for the history to linger
still for a brief period, in its old haunts—and, therefore,
we shall proceed to say what followed these events—and
how the drama of Mr. Sansoucy's and Ellie's city life
came to an end.
Sansoucy held then in his arms, pressed to his true, loving
breast, the form of his long-lost sister—but alas! this
form was not the Ellie of the past—smiling and happy,
and well. The child had received a terrible shock from the
death of Lucia—she had sunk down on the snow beside her,
when hurrying on with Wide Awake and Sansoucy, she had
come with them to the last footsteps of the organ girl and
to her form, stretched on the earth, and smiling even in
at home, when, slowly and silently, the friends of Wide
Awake following him, the body of Lucia was committed
to the earth from which it sprung.
The trying emotions and the bitter cold to which she
had been exposed, prostrated the child, worn out with many
griefs and so much exposure, all through the bitter winter:
—and thus, when, clasping her in his arms, and covering
her face with tears and kisses, Mr. Sansoucy pressed her
to his heart, calling her his dear little, long-lost sister,
Ellie's cheeks blushed crimson—then grew pale, and
sinking back, she had fainted in his arms.
In great alarm, she was laid upon the old bed of Lacklitter,
and a message sent immediately for Doctor Fossyl:
—the child was evidently sick. Sansoucy bent over her,
and watched her feeble breathing with an anguish which
he could not suppress—and it will easily be understood
that this sudden attack of disease, threatening to snatch
from his grasp the treasure just discovered, was enough
to try his utmost equanimity.
Doctor Fossyl came, and made his diagnosis, and shook
his head,
“Cerebral excitement and exposure,” he said, with one
hand on the child's wrist and the other on her forehead.
“The hand is burning, and the brain hot—she must not
stay here in this exposed room.”
Sansoucy gazed for a moment at the doctor with a look
of anguish which made even that stoical personage turn
away: and then he glued his lips to the thin hand of
Ellie and, covering his face, sobbed wearily.
A carriage was soon brought—Sansoucy wrapped up
the child and took her in his arms—and soon they reached
Mr. Ashton's, whither Sansoucy proceeded without
ceremony.
If he had doubted the propriety of such a step, the
warm and loving reception of the child soon dissipated
any such uneasiness: in an hour Ellie was lying warmly
covered, in the comfortable apartment of the two children.
We need not pause to say how deep the astonishment
of every one was, at the narrative of Mr. Sansoucy—
showing his connection with Ellie; and by what singular
steps he had come to trace the child's history from her
abandonment by her nurse to the present moment—and
to verify the fact that she was his sister. Little Bel and
Lizzie gave it up completely, not being able to understand
or believe it; and it was only the elder persons of the
family who comprehended at once, and without difficulty,
this new illustration of the secret ways of Providence.
So surrounded by loving faces, and hands ready to
supply her least wants, and bestow soft caresses, the child
lay for weeks—her frame battling with the fever which
fired her blood, and made her at times delirious. With
flushed cheeks, and eyes preternaturally bright, she would
lie and gaze for hours at the sky through the window—and
only when the close kiss upon her hand, and the hot tear,
attracted her feeble attention, did she turn from the blue
sky of the coming spring, and gaze with tender wonder on
the thin, grief-wasted face of him who watched at her
side, and felt every pang of her disease, and wept and
prayed for her.
At times the child would wander in her mind, as we
have said, and then it was a touching spectacle—her thin
face illumined by the internal light of sad but happy
thought. At such times her lips would gently part, and
with a happy smile she would murmur:
“Beautiful! Oh, very beautiful!—the angels on their
long white wings, bearing her in their arms. But how
pale you are, Lucia! Oh, how pale—but your face is
happy, very, very happy!”
Then she would wander off to the scenes through which
she had passed, and a sad look would dim her eyes, and
she would murmur again:
“Oh, how cold it is! The snow is falling all the time,
and by night it will be deep enough to cover any one that
falls down on the ground! There is a child going
through the snow—she is shivering!—where is she going
on such a cold, dark day? Oh, it is wrong to let her go;
and she is not covered from the wind and cold!—Oh, it's
not right—why don't rich people give her clothes, and
something to eat?—for her feet move as if she was going
to fall. Oh, help her! help her—the Saviour died for
her, as well as for you!”
Doctor Fossyl would shake his head, and mutter:
“That tells the story of this fever—give me the draught
—she must sleep, and her brain rest.”
The draught would be then given the child, and she
would slowly close her eyes, and forgetting her snow-picture,
smile as she gradually sunk to slumber, murmuring:
“Are you my brother?—are you my real brother?
to me—so very, very kind, and good, and dear to me—a
poor little child, with nothing but my love—”
“Nothing but a treasure greater than the thrones of
kings!” he would murmur as she slept, covering his face
as he spoke, and sobbing. “Nothing but what the whole
world could not make me yield one particle of!—what
death cannot take from me!—for it will bless and pray
for me in heaven, among the angels, before God!”
And all who stood around the bed would go away, and
leave the strong man alone with the child—bending down
and choking his deep sobs, and trying to pray for help—
for mercy.
At times the child would suffer terribly, and it was in
these paroxysms that her faith and trust seemed to rise up
like a flame of pure fire, and drive away every pang, and
strangle the burning fever. Even the hard Doctor Fossyl,
long used to scenes of pain and disease, and those struggles
of mind against matter, which give such a terrible
interest to his profession—even the harsh doctor would
stand silent, with his thin hand covering his gaunt chin,
gazing upon her, and pondering new thoughts.
One day, when her fever was in the height of one of
these paroxysms, Aurelia, bending over her with eyes
streaming with tears, said, sobbing:
“Do you suffer much, Ellie?”
“Yes, ma'am,” said the child, faintly, “but I try to
bear it—I can bear it—strength is given to me.”
And she murmured some words, which the crouching
head of Doctor Fossyl bent forward to catch.
“What was that?” he said.
“A hymn, sir.”
“What?”
The child looked at him for a moment, and then, with
cheeks flushed with the fever, but in a voice low and distinct,
repeated:
Or languor settles at the heart;
When on my bed, diseased, oppressed,
I turn and sigh, and long for rest,—
O, great Physician! see my grief,
And grant thy servant sweet relief.
“Should poverty's destructive blow
Lay all my worldly comforts low;
And neither help nor hope appear,
My steps to guide, my heart to cheer;
Lord, pity and supply my need,
For thou on earth wast poor indeed.
“And at my life's last setting sun,
My conflicts o'er, my labors done,
Jesus, thy heavenly radiance shed,
To cheer and bless my dying bed;
And from death's gloom my spirit raise,
To see thy face and sing thy praise.”
“`To see thy face and sing thy praise!”' the sallow
physician murmured, with a strange look in his deep-set
eyes, over which his heavy brows drooped down, nearly
concealing them: and looking on the child in silence, and
with vacant eyes, his own childhood seemed to flow back
on him, and his livid forehead flushed, and from the bottom
of the long-chilled heart an inaudible whisper rose
and fled to heaven, and made the countless multitudes
rejoice—“I believe; help thou my unbelief!”
From that moment it seemed that Doctor Fossyl braced
every nerve for the breast-to-breast struggle with his
gigantic enemy. Devouring, with a rapidity which resembled
intuition, every reported case in his vast library, and
with a burning brain, overloaded with all his profound
experience, he would hasten back to Ellie's bed-side, and
there, face to face with death, grapple and fight with him
as if the lives of a thousand emperors, the hopes of
nations, hung upon the frail, wasting thread of that one
child's life. He never slept—day and night he was at the
child's bedside, with her hand in his, his eyes glued to her
face, his body crouching and bent forward, as to catch the
faintest sigh, the most imperceptible indications of her
condition: and his strength seemed never to flag, his
body to need nourishment or rest. Burning, it seemed,
with a personal hatred and fury toward the disease which
struggled with him, he caught it and held it in his iron
grasp, and bent it down beneath him, and so triumphed
over it, and saved her.
The hot fever slowly yielded in the contest—the child's
eyes were no longer preternaturally brilliant—the flush
of disease faded slowly from her cheek—and gradually
as the hours and days passed on, she grew calmer and
stronger: and the physician, rising from the struggle,
looked for a moment on the life he had snatched from the
jaws of death, and went away, and sank down overwhelmed
and powerless himself, before the enemy he had
conquered.
Let us here add, as we take leave of him, that he
recovered—and in a month or two, was again following
cynical humor had all passed away—and from the height
to which he had ascended, he looked back upon his former
life, and wondered at it, and blessed the day that he had
known the child.
So Ellie slowly recovered—day by day, gaining
strength;—and in the light and warmth of the now
blooming spring, far more in the light and warmth of all
those loving faces and kind, tender hearts, her health and
happiness came back, and resting on the heart of him
whose blood flowed in her veins—who loved her so—she
heard how they were going far away to the bright fields
her infant eyes had looked on, to be happy.
The children, Bel and Lizzie, had almost come to “high
words,” who should attend to Ellie—and the extravagant
affection of these little dames, was warmly returned by the
child, who had been treated by them both with a kindness
and tenderness which made her happy when she thought
of it. On the day she came down for the first time, Bel
and Lizzie had their first serious quarrel, and the subject
of the quarrel was the dress which Ellie should wear.
Bel advanced warmly, and with great eloquence, the
claims of a beautiful pink frock, with flounces, and a
darling love of a basque—while Lizzie was still more
eloquent upon the subject of her best blue mouselain,
with open sleeves, and laced in front—just look how
beautifully!
The quarrel ended on the appearance of Aurelia,
holding in her hand a pretty dress of pearl color, and
followed by her maid, also full handed:—and so Ellie
had the best possible right to disappoint both of the
young ladies—Mr. Sansoucy.
Two days afterwards, Aurelia, who had delayed her
return, on account of Ellie's sickness, went back home—
leaving Mr. Sansoucy melancholy for the moment, but
not hopeless.
He was soon to follow her, after having carried Ellie
home—and now, for the first time, he wrote, at length,
the strange and touching story of the child's recovery, to
his mother. He had not written during her sickness,
from a motive easily understood—but now, that she was
well again, he wrote and told them all; and said that he
would come with the child before they could reply to his
letter.
Mr. Sansoucy then made all his arrangements—and
among these arrangements was one for nothing less than
the transportation of Joe Lacklitter and Charley to
Sunnyside—Joe to live upon the farm, doing just what
he chose, and Charley to carry about the green fields
imaginary journals for sale, and hoe in the garden, if it
pleased him, for variety.
Ellie had prayed for this; and the very life of the child
seemed to be involved in having thus beside her the loved
uncle who had loved her so—who was as dear to her, now,
as when she thought she had no other friends or relatives
on earth. With her arms around her brother's neck,
Ellie had besought him for this—and uncle Joe entering,
she had run to him, clasped him in her arms, and hidden
her face, as in old days, on his kind, honest heart.
Mr. Sansoucy needed no persuasion. Joe's love and
tenderness for Ellie had endeared him equally to all, and
never, never would any of their family forget the kindness
and protection he had bestowed upon the child—his
solicitude while she was sick and suffering—his joy when
she recovered, and they told him she was well. That
kind friend never would be forgotten; and it did not
require much persuasion to induce Joe to go and live and
help upon the farm.
Mr. Sansoucy, as he came out from the abode of Joe,
observed some workmen carrying a long sign toward
the former business stand of Captain Schminky, and
looking over the door of that establishment, he perceived
that “Schminky, Grocer,” had disappeared—as indeed
had the actual personage, we may as well inform the
reader—to parts unknown. Whether Mrs. Schminky
had represented to him the danger of a sojourn in Virginia
for both of them—or had simply used her will and
influence, we cannot say. But Schminky was among the
things of the past, as far as Richmond was concerned
Mr. Sansoucy walked on, but suddenly found himself
opposite to a gentleman and a lady who were passing—
and in the gentleman he recognized no less a personage
than Monsieur Guillemot.
Monsieur Guillemot cried out in ecstacy, at seeing his
cher ami, Mistare Sansouci; and then with a gentle wave of
his hand, presented—Madame Angelique Susanne Guillemot;
which lady Mr. Sansoucy recognized at once, and
bowed to, and shook hands with in a way which evidently
caused Monsieur Guillemot to feel himself a bankrupt in
run upon him.
So they passed away to the neat dwelling of Madame,
which Monsieur Guillemot besought his friend Sansoucí
to enter and honor—but this being impossible, he passed
on, bowing and smiling pleasantly, to think that Guillemot
was no more bankrupt and a bachelor, but happy
and comfortable, and married.
He called by the post-office, and a letter from Mr.
Incledon was handed to him. It said that he was going
soon to study for the ministry—and meanwhile could not
Ernest pay him a visit—spring had come, and editorial
duties might wait for a season—there were young ladies
lastly in the house to entertain him, if he could not be
amused by one, who, praying God to bless him, was his
sincere and faithful Ralph.
Sansoucy smiled, and said:
“Yes, yes! the spring has come, and editorial duties
will probably wait long—and as for the young ladies,
faith! they amuse and interest me no longer; I'm not in
the market!”
And going to his office, he sat down and wrote Ralph
Incledon all about everything: and then his pathetic
farewell to the readers of the “Mammoth,” which he
penned with tears—of laughter; and then having done
all this, he put on his hat, and with a glad smile sought
Mr. Ashton's house and Ellie.
22. CHAPTER LAST.
THE VICTORY.
It was a beautiful May morning, and the spring had
fully come forth on the fields and woods with tender
green in grass and leaves, and a myriad of flowers nodding
up and down in the soft warm breezes blowing faintly
with perfume on their wings, from the far tranquil sea.
The showers of April had faithfully performed the duty
assigned to them—or rather stated to be regularly performed
by them—in the old proverb. All the world was
covered with the flowers, and on the banks of brilliant
streams which sparkled on through sun and shadow, over
emerlda fields, the beds of violets and buttercups and
all the early meadow-stars were positively dazzling.
The spring seemed fully determined to repay the earth
for the harsh blasts of the old winter, whose gloomy
thunder had long died away in the icy north—and so it
made the green earth smile and laugh—and scattered
over the world its brightest treasures—and inaugurated
such a merry, happy, golden time, that Maia, in her fullest
beauty and best spirits, even as she was represented in the
May-day song of the children, never could have looked so
beautiful, or dowered the earth before with so much
splendor.
On the flowery hill beyond the flowing river, and above
the city, a travelling carriage which was going southward,
stopped for a time, and getting out of it, two persons
gazed for a moment in silence on the scene—on the great
dotted it—and on the far low plains bounded by hills
which held upon their tops the canopy of blue, over which
white clouds were floating in the warm south breeze—and
on the city over which a rosy mist drooped, half concealing
that snowy Parthenon, the Capitol; and the white spires
rising up to heaven.
We need not tell the reader that the personages who
thus paused to cast a last look on the scene of so many
sufferings and joys, and griefs and rejoicing, were Mr.
Sansoucy and his little sister.
Ellie was clad in her neat pearl-colored dress, and her
soft brown hair was brushed back from her pure forehead,
beneath the small bonnet. Her large blue eyes gazed
alternately upon the scene before her, and then with
inexpressible joy and tenderness upon the face of her
companion.
But Mr. Sansoucy for the moment does not think even
of Ellie—the future disappears with all its brilliant visions;
and floating back on the tide of memory, he seems to again
live over all his life in the busy hive—pass again through
its feelings and its scenes—live again all that life, colored
by memory.
He remains long, thus musing with far away dreamy
eyes—eyes dimmed now by a cloud, as he recalls some
sorrow—then brilliant and smiling, as he returns to some
scene of mirth and laughter. Finally, all these expressions
disappear—and bending down his head, he says with his
old, odd smile, faint, wistful, and unfathomable:
“Farewell, O city!—city that thinkest thou art much
to set up a number of Pekins, and some Amsterdams—
farewell! Thou art busy as I stand here looking on thee,
with a thousand schemes—and through thy veins and
artery-like streets, that hot blood, human life, flows ever
to and fro—and struggles, and battles, and foams in its
passage—never ceasing, ever flowing on—like the restless
current sustaining the spirit of life, in the actual frame of
man! Thou art busy with a thousand thoughts that are
not of heaven—seldom thy hot blood flows toward the
altars—seldom thy fiery eyes raise themeslves toward
those spires which point to heaven! Such art thou, O
city—heart of a land which has made history—and such
are thy occupations, thy passions, and thy struggles. Thy
struggles! for thou strugglest for ever—and the press
is rolling ever in thee—and the courts for ever echo in
thee—and the journals that chronicle thy daily heartbeats,
are full of the lawless things that riot for ever in thee!
Such art thou, beautiful city, sleeping nightly—if thou
indeed sleepest ever—to the murmur of thy waterfalls, and
waking to run on for ever in thy rapid course. Such art
thou, but who am I to be sitting in judgment upon thee,
or thy doings? Am I not like the rest—a thousand times
worse than thousands—a poor journalist who never so
much as knew the existence of the beauty and goodness,
and charity, and nobility of thy daughters and thy sons?
O beautiful city! What am I, to become thy critic—I,
who have been one of the throng—who have grown heated
often in thy struggles — who going now into the cool
country-lands, will feel like the fiery king, Jugurtha,
`How cool are thy baths, Apollo!' No! that is not
my feeling, heaven be praised—the country is not my
prison; or if it is, I have chosen it, and like my jailor!
Rather I'll say, `How beautiful are thy fields, O Maia!
thy smiling fields, laughing with tender grass and flowers!'
and so my fine apostrophe to thee, O city, ends! How
much of earnest mingles with the jesting, who can tell!”
And Mr. Sansoucy, with a look almost sad, turned
from the landscape, and looked at Ellie, who had listened
to these muttered words without comprehending them.
“Let us be thankful, dear,” he said, pressing his lips
to her pure brow, with deep affection: “let us be thankful
that the mercy of heaven has given you back to home,
and those you love—thank God for this, Ellie, if I do
not know how, yet; and taking your hands in mine, we
will kneel together—with prayers of love and gratitude
to that merciful being who blessed us with this supreme
blessing.”
His gaze dwelt softly upon the tender face, and the
eyes which filled with the dews of gratitude and happiness,
and he was silent, turning away and murmuring.
As he did so, they saw below them, on the slope of the
hill, the figure of a boy, who, with head bent down, approached
an enclosure, in which a single white stone,
marked the last resting place of one who slept.
The boy stood by the green hillock, on which bloomed
a bed of flowers, and, clasping his hands, sank down, and
hid his face in the long grass, and the flowers upon the
grave.
It was Wide-Awake at the grave of Lucia; and Ellie
gazed at him, and tears came to her eyes, and she was
silent—but not so silent that her brother did not hear
her murmur:
For thou did'st weep o'er Lazarus dead.”
“Yes, Ellie,” said Sansoucy, folding her in his arms
with deep love and tenderness: “that Saviour raised you
almost from the dead; for this, and all his love and
mercy, I will be his child and servant—let us go.”
And with his arm round the child, who clung to him,
and shed happy tears, and smiled, he returned to the
carriage, and entered with her, and gave the signal to
the driver to continue his way.
In ten minutes the carriage had disappeared behind
the green foliage toward the south.
| Ellie, or, The human comedy | |