Chapter 11 Good Intentions, if not Good Works
Chapter 11
Good Intentions, if not Good Works
The next day, Lucy was more unwell. Miss Prigott said it was just what she expected, though on what grounds this expectation was founded, she declined to state. Her aunt would no longer delay consulting a physician, though Lucy pleaded against it. She thought of dear, good, comfortable Dr. White, and wished she were in his hands. But the wishes could not bring him, and her dread of Dr. Thornton could not keep him away. He came, looking, as the saying goes, as if he had just “come out of a bandbox”, with few words, a grave face, and an already careworn expression on his still youthful brow. His visit was brief. Lucy thought he had hardly looked at her. But his eye had been as busy as it seemed quiet. He had felt the changing pulse that indicated so faithfully every sudden emotion; had observed the color that came and went in the young face. He noted the compressed lips that shut back complaint which said as clearly as speech could, that a strong will dwelt in the fragile form.
Yes, he had even taken note of that flood of luxuriant hair that shone around the sweet face, and the large, brown eyes, rare in color as they were in size. But though doctors in stories always shake their heads, he had not shaken his, and when Mrs. Whittier followed him out of the room, his few words reassured her. He thought Lucy’s illness was not serious. Yet for many days he continued his visits, and Lucy soon learned to enjoy these brief interviews. One day, during a conversation, Helen, exclaiming at some playful remark Lucy had made, cried, “Why, Lucy Grant!” Instantly the face of Dr. Thornton flushed with a new interest.
“Are you from the country?” he asked. Lucy answered that she was, with a momentary surprise at the question. He looked at her now with real interest. She felt the difference between his present tone and his previously polite, nonchalant manner, and smiled with a half satisfied, half inquisitive air.
“My brother has met you, I think,” he said.
“I don’t remember,” said Lucy, trying to think whether she really knew any person of that name.
“Oh no, Lucy does not know him,” said her aunt. “He went abroad before she came to us.” He did not reply but still looked with a new interest at Lucy.
“I must introduce you to my sister,” he said at last.
“Oh, I’ve had the pleasure of doing that!” said her aunt. “Lucy dear, Mrs. Lee is Dr. Thornton’s sister.”
Lucy’s frank smile said she was glad of that, and she was going to tell him how Mrs. Lee and her mother had been old friends when a look from Miss Prigott restrained her. How she knew Miss Prigott’s eyes were on her, nobody knows, but they made her freeze up instantly.
“Your mother must have had an immense family,” said Miss Prigott, addressing the doctor.
He smiled. “How do you figure that?” he asked.
“Why, there must be at least twenty years between you and Mrs. Lee.”
“Fifteen. But what then?”
“Why, if there was a child every year or two—”
“But, unfortunately for your theory, my good lady, there was not. There was a wide gap between my sister and myself.”
‘“My good lady!’ What irreverence!” Miss Prigott felt it to her fingers’ ends, and her little soul rose against Dr. Thornton and said it wouldn’t stand such treatment.
No sooner had he left when, to everyone’s surprise, she broke out with, “Well! When I was young, we didn’t employ boys as our physicians! If we had, I wonder where I would be now!”
“Quite an interesting question!” whispered Helen to Lucy.
“And I am surprised, Lucy, that you expect to get well under such treatment,” continued Miss Prigott.
“I thought you said she wasn’t sick!” said Helen.
“Sick! She’s seriously sick, I’ve no doubt. And this little whippersnapper, this Dr. Thornton, pretends that she is improving!”
“He’s six feet tall,” said Helen, smiling.
“Lucy certainly does look better,” said her aunt, “Sometimes she has quite a good color.”
“A hectic flush,” said Miss Prigott. Lucy laughed, and so did her aunt.
“You’ve quite a ‘hectic flush’ yourself,” said Helen playfully.
Miss Prigott was silent, but from that hour Lucy became the victim of a thousand petty, wearisome annoyances, requiring patience piled on patience to endure with composure. She must have mustard on her chest, and camphor on her throat. If there was a cloud in the sky only as big as a man’s hand she must not go out, lest she should catch a cold. A ray of sunshine wider than a knitting needle must not creep into her room, lest it make her feverish. If she sat up she was implored to lie down. If she read, books were pronounced too exciting. If she ate her food with gusto, it was proof that there was an unnatural appetite to check. If otherwise, she was committing suicide by starvation.
“Is there anything you feel you would like, my love?” she inquired so many times one day that Lucy said at last, in despair, that she would like a bit of chicken. While she was trying to eat it, Miss Prigott hovered around the plate with so many cautions that the poor child could not take a morsel. Then Miss Prigott pronounced it a symptom of tuberculosis, that the appetite was always changing. In her weariness, these little trials wore on Lucy. Meanwhile, Miss Prigott was careful to restrain herself when Mrs. Whittier and Helen were present. They never knew a fraction of the annoyances which their dear Lucy endured. At last Miss Prigott armed herself with an immense medical book, and when she was alone with her victim, proceeded to study her case.
“Does it hurt you to draw a long breath? Have you coughed up anything rust-colored?” she inquired. To both questions, Lucy said no.
“Do you have a pain in your chest, inclining to the left side, sometimes affecting the left arm?”
“I once had a dreadful attack,” said Lucy.
“Then your heart is diseased. It’s ossified, or in process of ossifying.”
“But I don’t have such pains now,” said Lucy.
“Oh, well, you’ll be having them, depend on it. You must be careful when you go up a hill, and how you run upstairs. I’ve often seen you run upstairs two at a time.”
She read on, leaving Lucy to her own cheering reflections. Suddenly she started up. “Let me look at the corners of your eyes,” she said. “Yes, they’re as yellow as beeswax. Do you ever have a pain in your right side? Do you ever feel depressed and melancholy? Have you a bitter taste in your mouth? Oh, yes, I know you have. Your liver is inflamed; it is in an alarming state. That causes your cough. Your liver is swollen and crowds your lungs and tickles them. Then you cough, and that worthless Dr. Thornton says it’s tuberculosis.”
“Did he say that?” cried Lucy, starting up.
“Why, if he didn’t, he thinks so, I know. And I’ve said all along it was your liver.”
“By the time you’ve read through that book, I’ll be pretty thoroughly diseased,” said Lucy.
“You need not laugh. Your case is very serious. And if it had not been for me, you would have died of liver complaint long ago.”
At this moment Charles put his head in at the half-open door. “There’s a little, dried-up, fussy old woman downstairs, who wants to see you, Miss Prigott,” he said. She bustled away, and he looked after her, laughing.
“She’ll be delighted when she sees who it is,” he said.
“Who is it?” asked Lucy.
“Mrs. Nobody,” he answered.
“Oh, Charles! How mean! And you lied.”
“It is April Fool’s Day,” he answered. “Besides, what business has she to be scaring you to death with her old doctor books? Mama would be so angry if she knew! And if she looks in the mirror on the hat stand, she’ll see just the little old woman I sent her to see.”
“I’ve done a lot of things I shouldn’t,” said Lucy, “but I don’t think I ever tried to tease a respectable old woman in my life.”
“Perhaps you never wanted to. I did want to, so there’s the difference.”
“Yes, but still, I’m sorry you did that.”
“She’s Prig by name, and prig by nature,” said Charles, feeling nettled at Lucy’s reproof. Lucy was silent, and Charles got up and went whistling through the room. His conscience struck him, and the longer he reflected, the more ashamed he felt.
“I didn’t mean to hurt her feelings,” he said. “I only wanted to have a little fun.”
“Can I tell her that? Please let me!” She caught his hand as he passed her couch, and her pleading look prevailed.
“I’ll tell her myself,” he said. He went out and met Miss Prigott on the stairs, but instead of the exasperated look he expected to encounter, he was surprised by one of the most kindly and forgiving nature.
“It’s the first of April,” she said smiling. “I should have remembered that.”
“I never saw anybody like her in my life!” thought Charles. “The least she could have done was to fly into a passion.”
He felt disgusted with her that she had shown so little spirit, though he would have been indignant if she had shown more. So consistent are we all! Lucy’s face expressed some surprise and Miss Prigott observed it.
“Is it so strange to see an old woman control herself?” she asked.
“It’s strange to see anybody do that, old or young,” said Lucy, “and as pleasant as it is strange.”
She began to feel a kindly glow of interest in and sympathy with Miss Prigott, for she saw that the provocation to anger had been great. The little face seemed lighted with a charm that attracted her; and as she looked at it, she saw that two tears twinkled on the short eyelashes, although the thin lips wore a serene smile. The next time she spoke, though it was only to say “thank you,” when Miss Prigott offered her a fan, the tone of her voice said what a dozen speeches could not have done. It said, “I have begun to care for you!” and Miss Prigott’s lonely heart had won a treasure that cheered and blessed her as no earthly object had ever done before.
Charles walked back and forth in an unenviable mood, wishing Miss Prigott to all manner of places—to “Joppa,” and to “Jericho,” and to the “bottom of the Red Sea,” but she still sat in her chair, as unaffected by his maledictions as she was unconscious of them. At last, she rose and went to her room, where her Bible and her hymn book waited for her with words of comfort and sympathy. As soon as she was out of hearing, Charles drew near again to Lucy.
“What makes you look so grave?” he asked.
“Me?” said Lucy. “I was only thinking.”
“A penny for your thoughts, then.”
“They are not worth that. I was only thinking of poor Miss Prigott.”
“Poor! Rich Miss Prigott, you mean. She’s very rich!”
“She may be poor, even so. Though, if she has plenty of money, she’s better off than I supposed. But I meant that she’s poor in friends. Nobody likes her—at least, no one loves her.”
“Loves her!” said Charles, making a face at the bare thought.
“Well, I do think I’ll begin to love her in time. At first, I didn’t at all. I only saw her undesirable qualities. But I see that underneath them she has something good.”
“Then look at me through those rose-colored glasses.”
“Well, Charles, wasn’t it really good of her to not get angry at you for calling her such terrible names? Think how pleasantly she trotted down to the parlor and back again.”
“Pooh! She didn’t understand that I meant her by those names. You’d have seen her angry enough if she did.” Lucy was silent again. In his present mood, she thought it not wise to argue with him. “You think I’m a rascal!” he said.
“Oh, no! I only wanted you to be fair, as boys are apt to be.”
“Well, what do you want me to do? Go fall on her neck and cry, and tell her I’m sorry?” Lucy smiled, and he could not help smiling too.
“I like fun as much as you do,” she said, “but since this is your father’s house, and Miss Prigott is a visitor here, and an old woman, I felt a little sorry for her. But never mind now. I’m sure I’ve made too much about it.”
He looked as if he thought so, but when he met Miss Prigott at tea shortly after, his kind, attentive manner said just what he was ashamed to say in words, “I’m sorry if I’ve hurt your feelings.” When he entered his room that night, he found on his table a set of books he had long desired. They stood in elegant bindings, a little army of pleasant surprises.
“Papa knew I wanted them!” was his delighted thought. He opened one and a paper fell from it, on which was written in an old-fashioned, but familial hand, “Please accept, from a little, dried-up, fussy old woman.”
“I’m the April fool now,” he said, throwing the volume angrily down. And if Miss Prigott had been within reach, he would gladly have choked her. He rushed from his room looking for sympathy. But from whom? What would his mother say when told that he had applied such epithets to a worthy old woman, her guest? As for his father, nothing would tempt him to face his ridicule. And Helen? She wouldn’t know what to say. But there was Lucy, she knew all about it. He flew to her.
“I’m in bed,” she called out, as he pounded on her door.
“Get up, then, and get dressed.”
“Oh, Charles!”
“I won’t sleep a wink tonight if you don’t.”
Lucy rose, threw on her robe, and opened the door. He rushed in, candle in hand, and held up the paper. On reading it, Lucy could hardly help laughing, but on the other hand, she felt for Charles in his humiliation.
“Between Miss Prigott and me, you fare pretty badly,” she said.
“You! You are an angel compared with her! Was there ever anything so mean? But I won’t keep her old books! I’ll lay them on the floor outside her door. If she falls over them in the morning and breaks her neck, it won’t be my fault.”
Lucy deliberated a little before she replied. From what she knew of Miss Prigott, she felt pretty sure that she had sent the books as a peace offering. It was mistaken kindness, certainly. But then, if kindness, it should be received as such.