SUNSHINE.
“Voila, Jeannette! voila!”
The little old woman lifts her wrinkled face from the lace-work over which she is bending, and looks where the slender hand just pointed. How did it come there, that sunbeam? So the two question; for never, in all the time they have occupied the low, dim room, with its one window, has a sunbeam shone into it, warm and cheery, like that. Possibly some recent alteration in the high buildings without has made way for the welcome visitor, now that the sun has moved farther around to the north. However it came there, there it is, the mellow ray, deepening in color as the sun sinks lower down, changing from yellow to orange, from orange to rose. The couch must be moved nearer, so that the thin hand may press the wall and feel the warm light as it rests there; then a smile wreathes the wan, weary young face, and its owner goes off dreaming—dreaming with eyes wide open.
Somebody knocks at the door. “Coom,” calls Jeannette. A lad of twelve lifts the latch and enters.
“Is this the place where they mend lace, ma’am?”
“Yes.C’est moi.”
“Well, they sent a lot in this bundle. They said they wanted it done right away, if you could. It’s a curtain. The kitten tore it, I guess. He’s always scampering up the curtains.”
“Yes.” (Yes is one of the few English words Jeannette is quite sure about, so she seldom adds to it in her replies, when she can avoid doing so.)
“When shall I come after it?”
“Maunday—next—week,” Jeannette slowly answers, and takes the package the lad has brought.
His errand is done; why does he linger? Have the brown eyes, in a rapid glance or two, taken in more than they would if they were not so big and generous? The low ceiling with the laths bared of plaster here and there, the scant furniture, the tumble-down stove, the uneven, uncarpeted floor, the plants in the window—sickly for lack of light—the withered little lace-mender shivering in her shawl for lack of fire, the boy on the couch yonder, clutching at a sunbeam, gazing dreamily into space; he has seen all; he has heard the hollow cough, he winks hard to keep from taking the decided shape of tears something that for an instant dims his bonny eyes.
“Has he been sick a good while?” he whispers.
“Yes,” says Jeannette, and calls, “Ernest!”
Ernest comes out of his dream. The great dark, sorrowful eyes meet the great bright, generous ones. In a twinkling young America, with lusty health and blooming cheeks, is at the bedside of—young France, shall we say?
An hour after Ned hastens home to his sister with the story he has just heard.
“Belle,” he cries, as he bursts into the parlor, “you know where you sent me this afternoon—to that French woman’s? Well, they’re poor as can be. And he’s sick, too. And no doctor, no medicine, no nothing! Wish I was as rich as Crœsus!”
“He? Who’s he?”
“Why, Ernest. His father was an artist, you see; and they came to this country, and his pictures wouldn’t sell, and he couldn’t get work, and he got discouraged and drowned himself. Then, after awhile, his mother died, and Jeannette—she’s a servant who came with them—she stays with him and takes care of him. He’s got the consumption and coughs awfully.Iknow what’s done it! Starving! and freezing! Guess what he was doing! Warming his hands in the sunshine!”
“Well, did she say when she would have the window curtain finished?”
Where shall one go for sympathy and help? Thereis no mother. The father is a hundred miles away, engaged as counsel in the settlement of a disputed estate (if anybody knows what all that means). The live-long night Ned lies awake, thinking the matter over something after this fashion:
“There’s that house—corner of South and High Street. Rooms to let—noticed the advertisement to-day. Nice rooms. Plenty of light. Justtheplace!... Wish I was rich as Crœsus!... What did I want to go and throw away my last allowance that way for? Haven’t got a red cent left! Don’t know where it’s all gone to, now! Got a lot of trinkets that aren’t of much use to me, anyhow. Cut my thumb half off with my jack-knife first time I used it; broke all the strings to my violin before I’d had it a week; and made myself about sick trying to smoke cigars.... Wish I was rich as Crœsus!”
When, next morning, Ned meets on the street his elderly friend, the physician, who helped him comfortably through with the measles, mumps and whooping cough, and is greeted with, “Why, young man, there’s a cloud on your face—what’s the trouble?” he answers, “Come and see,” and leads to a dismal quarter of the town, and from one story to another of a dismal tenement, till they reach the chamber where Ernest lies. When they are down in the street again, Ned takes up the old refrain—
“Wish I was rich as Crœsus. We’d get him out of there and cure him up, wouldn’t we?”
“Ah, my boy, if we had the wealth of twenty Crœsuses it’s too late to help him now. The best we can do is to make him as comfortable as possible where he is. Come round to the office with me, and I’ll give you something to ease the cough a little.”
When the medicine is ready Ned rises to go, but hesitates.
“There wasn’t any fire there, Doctor. I’ve used up all my last allowance, and father’s away from home. What’s to be done?”
The Doctor writes down some names and addresses on a slip of paper.
“There. You go to these gentlemen, state the case, and we’ll see what they’ll do for you.... I might give you a recommend.... But no. We’ll try without, first. I fancy that honest face of yours will open the pocket-books quicker than any note from me.”
And Ned sets out on his first begging expedition, which proves so successful that in a few hours the tumble-down stove retires ignominiously to make place for a shining new one, in which the fire need not go out while cold weather lasts; and the evening shadows, creeping back to their favorite haunt, the attic, are amazed and panic-stricken to find it occupied by a rosytroop of hilarious elfs, dancing up and down the wall, with whom they must battle for possession.
Moreover, Ned has enlisted the sympathies of another of his particular friends, Bridget, the cook, who fails not to prepare, daily, delicacies for him to carry to the sick boy—glad of an errand thither, for this new acquaintance is extremely interesting, not in the least like any one Ned has ever met before, so young and yet so accomplished. Why, he can give a hundred hints about playing on that precious violin, he can show sheets of music of his own composing, a portfolio full of sketches, his own work, in pencil and crayon and oil; and, oh! to hear him talk of wonderful Paris, and of famous people whom he has seen and whom his father has known.
Perhaps a month has passed, when, upon an afternoon, Ned, bounding in all aglow from the frosty air without, stops short, seeing the pallid face is not lifted in eager greeting from among the cushions.
“Is he asleep?” he whispers.
“Yes,” sobs Jeanette.
By and by as the lad turns slowly away, she places in his hands the portfolio, saying;
“He tells me eet ees for you.”
Belle, noticing her brother as he enters the house and hurries through the hall on his way to his room, exclaims:
“Why, Ned, you’ve been crying! What’s the matter?”
“Ernest is dead!”
“Who is Ernest?” inquires the father, lately returned, glancing up from his newspaper.
When he has heard Ned’s story he asks to see the sketches. While he is examining them, Belle comes and looks over his shoulder. Suddenly she utters a little scream.
“Why, Ned, you darling! look here!”
They have found, among the rest, a picture which Ned has not seen before. It brings tears to his eyes again, to Belle’s, too; the grim old lawyer’s lips twitch for a moment, and he goes off and has the painting framed in most costly style, and hangs it above the mantel in his study. Perhaps it may serve as reminder of a bit of a sentence, spoken centuries ago, which fortune-favored people, snuggling about the ingleside on boisterous winter nights, are very apt to forget: “The poor ye have always with you.”
You may imagine the faithful Jeannette is not neglected. The sunniest spot in the cemetery is where a marble cross tells you that Ernest is sleeping below.And the picture, what is it? It is a glimpse, in brown and amber tints, of a wretched attic chamber with dilapidated ceiling, and scant, worn-out furniture, and bare, uneven floor. And the only light there comes from the face peeping in through a door which stands ajar—a boyish face, round and merry, with ruddy cheeks, and big, heartful eyes, and brown bits of curls clustering about the broad forehead—a frank, open, cheery, winsome face. Now, away from the light which streams from this face and into the sombre shadows, frightened demons are turning to flee. And one of the demons whose gloomy features are partly visible, and whose hand grasps a dagger, you may guess was meant for Despair. This picture has a name. Ernest painted it underneath, in large letters of scarlet and gold. This is the name—Sunshine.