Chapter 10 The 16th Birthday
Chapter 10
The 16th Birthday
Lucy was surprised and delighted on the morning of her birthday to find her table adorned with many little tasteful gifts. There was among them a small, neatly folded package, and on opening it she found a religious tract written “to the unconverted,” and from between whose pages there fell the embroidered collar that she had seen Miss Prigott work so hard on.
She took it up with astonishment. That Miss Prigott, after all that had passed, should attempt to please her, seemed incredible.
What unjust thoughts I have had of her!” she cried. “I’ll go this minute and thank her. But let me look at this tract first. ‘To the unconverted!’ Did she mean that for me? Is it possible I have appeared so little like a Christian that she could feel sure I was not? But of course, she was sure, or she would not have given me this.”
A bitter pang seized her, and her tears fell fast. She thought how good God had been to her all her life, and that she had dishonored Him. Then she began to question herself as to how she ever had dared imagine she knew anything about real love for Him. The longer she looked at herself, the more discouraged and wretched she became, and for a time she paced her room in anguish.
At last she threw herself on her knees and laid her fears and despair at the feet of her Savior, to whom the first alarm should have driven her. And as she prayed and ventured herself upon Him, peace returned to her heart. She felt that she was His and that no righteousness of hers was needed to make her acceptance with Him sure and steadfast. As she rose from her knees, her eyes fell on a little book that had lain unnoticed among her other birthday gifts. It was from her aunt, and opening it, its very title cheered her: Daily Food for Christians.
“My aunt guessed what I needed,” she thought, and hastily turning to the verses for the day, she was surprised that they were just what she needed to hear at that moment. “Who among you fears the Lord? Who obeys the voice of His Servant? Who walks in darkness and has no light? Let him trust in the name of the Lord and rely upon his God.” And “Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him.”
“Yes, I may distrust and doubt myself, but I will rely on my God and trust Him!” she thought. She stood for a while with the precious little book in her hand; it comforted her inexpressibly.
They were all awaiting her in the dining room, excited to see her enjoyment of the surprise they had prepared for her. But though there was a tranquil expression on her face as she joined them, they all noticed that she was paler than usual and had been crying.
“Are you more unwell this morning, dear?’ asked her aunt.
“Oh no, Aunt; and I have been delighted with my beautiful birthday presents. I thank you so much, dear Uncle! and you too, Aunt! And for my pretty collar, I suppose I must thank Miss Prigott.”
“Miss Prigott wishes no thanks,” remarked that lady, drily.
“Your gift was a pleasant surprise, anyway,” said Lucy, determined not to be annoyed.
“I wish I could give profit as easily.” Lucy understood this remark to refer to the tract and she said in a faint voice, “I thank you for the wish.”
After breakfast, as she was passing through the hall, Miss Prigott’s head once more made its appearance from the side door. “If you can spare time, I would like to see you,’’ she said. Lucy entered the room with a beating heart hardly knowing what she feared, yet certainly afraid.
“You were displeased at my sending you a tract!” Miss Prigott began.
“Not displeased,” replied Lucy. “I was sorry.”
“For what?”
“That I had given you a reason to do it,” she said, in a voice so gentle, so humble, that Miss Prigott for a moment was touched. But only for a moment. Instantly gathering up all the dignity she could concentrate in her little person, she fastened her eyes on the shrinking figure before her.
“What do you mean, child?” she asked. Lucy was silent. “Do you mean to pretend that you are capable of judging for yourself what sort of tracts you need? Or what?”
“At my age, I ought to have some opinion on such a subject. But I feel just as grateful to you for your wish to be of service to me, as if—” she hesitated.
“Go on.”
“As if you had chosen the best way. If you had called me in here and told me you feared I was not a Christian and had pointed out when I had given you a reason to think so, then I think I would not have felt so wretched as I did.” Tears started to her eyes as she recalled the misery of the morning, and she rose to go.
“Sit down, child,” said Miss Prigott. “Sit down. I’m sure I had no wish to make you wretched! But girls do use such strong language! I am sorry my tract was not to your taste. And I can’t account for it that I may have made a mistake in choosing it. Are you sure you are not yourself mistaken?”
“No, not sure. But I hope not! I trust not!”
“Well! I must say I never dreamed you were religious. I have not heard you speak a word that would indicate it since you came here.”
“It is not my way to talk much on such subjects.”
“‘Your way!’ Do you mean to say that Christians have different ways peculiar to themselves, and in which they all are right?”
“I did not say that, but I always was taught to think so.’’
“Then there is no standard? Everyone is to judge for himself?”
“Christ is the standard. Everyone is to try to be like Him.”
“And I suppose it was not His way to talk much about religion?”
“No, I don’t think it was,” said Lucy, rousing herself, and speaking with animation. “Not to talk about it. I never could see that that was expected of us, either.”
“Poor child! You have been sadly taught, I fear. Now listen. Christians are the disciples of Christ. They are either like Him or they don’t deserve the name. And if they are all like Him, they are, of course, all like each other, just as coins are all similar when they are cast of the same die.”
“My father has often told me that natural characteristics modify the Christian life,” said Lucy. “For instance, that Paul could not be like John, nor Moses like David.” Miss Prigott was astonished and puzzled.
“I never saw such a girl in my life!” she exclaimed. “I thought I was going to enjoy helping you! First, I gave you that tract, and then I was going to give you others as I felt you were ready for them. But now, my plans are rearranged. Nothing in this world gives me such pure pleasure as doing good. But you have thwarted me from the outset.”
“I do believe she wishes I was a heathen whom she could convert at her leisure,” thought Lucy. But instantly, she reproached herself for the thought, and said, “There are some tracts I want very much. There is one of Newton’s, called ‘The Progress of Grace’, that I have long wanted. If you would be so kind as to give me that, I would be very glad.”
She hoped thus to appease Miss Prigott’s troubled soul but hoped in vain. Miss Prigott looked negligently over the great bundle of tracts on her table and said at last that it was not among them. In fact, it formed no part of her scheme to build up the objects of her compassion in faith and good works. She was one of a large class of good people who, in their zeal for the utterly non-religious, lose sight of those babes in Christ who are in as pressing need of training as they once were of warning.
“You may return that unfortunate tract you despise so much,” she said as Lucy once more rose to go.
“I don’t despise it,” said Lucy, “nor your goodwill. I thank you for both. And I am sorry I can’t make you understand me and see how very much obliged I am to anybody who wishes to help me become what I long for!” The sincere, earnest tone went to Miss Prigott’s heart.
“I believe you do mean right,” she said, “but you need training, much training. If you are really a Christian, why not show the simplicity of one? Why all this parade of curls about your face, that everybody notices wherever you go?”
“My hair was not made by myself,” replied Lucy, who was so surprised she could hardly speak.
“At least you could cut off those long curls. Why should Christians conform thus to the world?”
“I was always taught to make myself look as well as I could, without too much time and thought. Mother always said people owed as much to each other. And she always would have us neat and clean, whatever else we lacked. She said that was our only ornament.”
“Ah, I see how it is! You love that pretty hair more than the will of God?”
“I hope not,” said Lucy. “I don’t know that I ever gave it so many thoughts at a time in my life, as I have just now. But I supposed as it does curl—”
“Just as if it would curl if you did not spend an hour every morning on it!’
“It would certainly be a tangled mess if I didn’t take care of it. But I don’t spend that much time on it, nor anything like it.”
“But you are vain of it; come, you can’t deny that.” Lucy was silent. “If not, of course you won’t object to my relieving you of it.” As she spoke, Miss Prigott approached her with scissors in
hand. Lucy instinctively put up both hands in self-defense.
“I am not vain of my hair,” she said, “but I don’t want to lose it. You might as well cut off my skin! Or, if you must cut, suppose you begin at this collar,” she added, laughing. “I’m sure it’s not simple at all.”
Miss Prigott laid aside her scissors and smiled too. She liked opposition as much as she liked simplicity. Her eye rested complacently on the collar Lucy wore. “Well, none of us will stagnate while you are here,” she said. “And considering you look so ugly with your hair pulled back from your face, that I think Providence meant for you to wear it as you do. There’s a philosophy on hair, as there is on everything.”
Lucy now made her escape. Helen met her as she was hurrying through the hall. “Where have you been? And what’s the matter with your hair?”
“I’ve been in Miss Prigott’s room, and she wanted to cut off my curls to bring down my vanity.”
“Your vanity! Well! I should like to cut down hers, but it would take too long. She’s been lecturing you! What about? Do tell!”
“Oh, about various things! But she means it for the best.”
“These old maids are always busybodies,” said Helen. “And Miss Prigott was an old maid when she was born.”
“How do you know? Were you there at the time?” Helen smiled and shrugged her shoulders, a habit she had caught unconsciously from her French teacher. Lucy continued on to her room and closed the door. She felt uneasy and restless, and only in solitude could she look into her own heart and learn the reason. She felt disposed to blame it on Miss Prigott, but she soon perceived that her perplexity lay in areas which that lady had not penetrated.
“What is it I want now? What would I have if at this moment I could be given whatever I need most?” was her anxious question. And the answer soon came. “I want an anchor. I want to feel fixed somewhere.” Yes, it was just this. The distrustful heart must have a rock on which to plant itself. Up until now, there had been much doubt and darkness and conflict in her soul. She felt that every wind that blew affected her. Even a Miss Prigott could shake her faith in God, make her doubt His love and mercy, and cut her loose from the Rock on which she was moored. Should this be so? Amid the multitude of her thoughts, the idea of God above offered repose. To Him, she turned. To Him, she confessed her capricious, changeful temper, her doubts, fears, and mistakes. She begged Him now, to fasten her to Himself. The Spirit of God chooses to work by simple means. The experience of that morning assured her of this.
Ever after, amid otherwise dark days, there was one point where there was no darkness at all, one center where all was peace. Friends disappointed the eager heart that asked too much. Change and uncertainty brooded over paths yet untried, but far above chance and change rose the sense of Jesus. “He is my Rock, and there is no unrighteousness in Him!” was now her joyful and thankful assurance.
Does any young heart regard this picture of Lucy’s birthday as somber, and draw back from it with aversion? There is sorrow and disappointment and change for all, and there is no soul strong enough to face life alone. In its plunge into the waves, it must have the assurance that One who has buffeted those waves in human infirmity and suffering, stands on the bank with outstretched, unwearied hands, to rescue and support.
When Lucy left her room, she found Helen dressed for a drive. “You must go too,” she said. “Mama thinks you should not try to walk for now.”
“I have a visit to pay just outside the city, and as it is a fine morning, I think you must accompany me,” said her aunt. Lucy felt not at all disposed to meet strangers in her present mood, yet she dared not object, and they were soon on their way, Miss Prigott forming one of the party. Whatever terror and shyness went with her was put to flight at once by the benevolent, friendly face with which Lucy was charmed on her introduction to Mrs. Lee.
“It wouldn’t be very hard to love her!” she thought, a thought that echoed at that moment in the heart of her new friend. After Mrs. Lee talked with her aunt and Miss Prigott for a little while, Lucy was glad to find herself addressed.
“You remind me of an old and very dear friend of my youth,” she said. “How strange these resemblances are! Miss Prigott! Do you remember our classmate, Sarah Whittier?”
“Of course I do,” returned Miss Prigott.
“And doesn’t this young lady resemble her? Excuse me, my dear,” she added, observing the color that had rushed to Lucy’s face. “I forgot for the moment that it is not pleasant to be scrutinized. But this was a dear, very dear friend!”
“The likeness is not miraculous,” remarked Miss Prigott. “This is her daughter.”
“The daughter of Sarah Whittier!” cried Mrs. Lee, drawing Lucy to her breast and kissing her tenderly. “My dear child!”
Pleasure and pain struggled together in Lucy’s heart, and her eyes filled with tears, while her face shone with smiles. “How unkind of Miss Prigott not to tell me she had known my mother!” said the tears “How delightful to meet one of her old friends!” said the smiles.
There was an “open sesame” to her heart in the embraces Mrs. Lee gave her. She needed few questions to lead her into such a glowing, tender description of her mother and brothers and sisters as only love and her simple unspoiled nature could give. Mrs. Lee sat holding the hand she had clasped at the outset, almost as simple, as loving, and as childlike herself. Mrs. Whittier and Helen looked on and enjoyed the scene which Miss Prigott at last interrupted by a dry, “Are we planning to spend the day here?” and then there were hasty goodbyes and a whirl into the noise and uproar of the city, and then home.