Chapter 12 The Consequences of a Prescription
Chapter 12
The Consequences of a Prescription
Lucy was happier with her position now that something like an understanding was established between Miss Prigott and herself. She had begun to know her uncle better too, and she regretted the hasty judgment she had formed against him in the beginning. In his great anxiety to spare the feelings of his family, he was continually having his intentions misunderstood. One needed to know him well to like him. While he was studying the best mode of doing you a favor without seeming to do it, Miss Prigott would run out with her brisk little figure, and force that same favor down your unwilling throat. Perhaps you are strangled in the effort to swallow it, but she’ll never know it, so there’s no great harm done.
“You must take a teaspoonful of this mixture every hour,” Dr. Thornton said to Lucy on the next visit, and all that day she was asking somebody what time it was.
“She needs a watch of her own,” thought her uncle.
“She ought to have a watch,” decided Miss Prigott. And while Mr. Whittier edged toward the subject by asking Lucy how she expected to manage in the night without one, and deliberately went from place to place in search of a particular, inexpensive kind, Miss Prigott was hurrying through Broadway as fast as horses could carry her, and had selected, purchased, and put into Lucy’s hands a ladies’ watch that was expensive, ornate, and inappropriate in every way.
Poor Lucy’s grateful heart ached with emotion and she needed nothing now to keep her awake that night. That such an amount was spent for her by an almost stranger, was in itself painful; but to own such a watch when even her father had none; when her mother was in such pressing need of almost everything money could buy, when Rebecca and Hatty were so poorly dressed! She lay and thought what books could have been obtained for Arthur
with a tenth of this expense; what a shawl she could have given the doctor’s wife; what piles of neat, comfortable garments for the children! And let no one deem this ingratitude. Her heart was more than full of thankfulness; it only shrank from so much selfish pleasure. She did not think once of herself. “This for Mother, that for Arthur,” was the sum of the matter. She passed the night in great perplexity, but toward morning, resolving to speak freely to her uncle about it, she grew easier and fell asleep. When he came to pay his usual visit before going out, she drew the watch from her pillow and placed it in his hand.
“Where did this come from?” he cried. She told him, watching his face as she did so. It expressed anything but approval or pleasure. Lucy thought she heard him say something about “these domineering old maids,” but she was not sure.
“What shall I do about it, Uncle?” she asked.
“Oh, enjoy it,” he returned.
“But how can I enjoy it, when—” she hesitated. In the night it had seemed the easiest thing in the world to open her heart to her uncle, but now it was quite another thing.
“Come, tell me the rest,” he said.
“Dear Uncle, I was thinking of the time when my father sold his watch, and how mother cried, because it had been her father’s once, and then to think of my having one worth, I don’t know how many like that!”
“Your father sold that watch!” cried her uncle. “My father’s watch sold!”
“It was to get things for Rebecca when she was sick,” said Lucy humbly. “She was not well for three years. Father made a crib for her with rockers, and we used to take turns rocking her when she was in pain. And her appetite was so poor that mother could hardly persuade her to eat enough to keep her alive. So one day—I shall never forget it—Father went to Honeydale, about five miles from us. When he came home, he had oranges and other nice things for Rebecca. She began to gain strength after that. The orange juice refreshed her so much. Father sat watching her as she drank it and looked so happy, and yet so pale. We did not know then that he had sold his watch, and we wondered what made Mother cry.” Her uncle covered his face with his hands, but Lucy knew that he was in tears.
“Oh, Uncle! Must I keep it?” she said.
“We’ll think it over,” he answered. “I hardly see what else you can do. Miss Prigott intended to do you a favor; you must try to feel grateful to her.
“Oh, I do feel grateful! So grateful that I ache,” cried Lucy, putting both hands on her breast. He kissed her and left the room.
There had been nothing gained by the conversation, she thought. She reproached herself for having betrayed that point in their family history; wondered how she came to do so; accused herself of always telling things she ought not. She wished—oh, how fervently—that she could fly to her mother’s sympathy and counsel and find rest. But now Miss Prigott came to flutter about her room, and make herself, in spite of her good qualities, as unwanted a companion as ever.
“You look feverish, my dear,” she said. “Let me feel your pulse. It is as irregular as possible. Have you had any more of those pains in your chest?”
“Only pangs of gratitude,” said Lucy, trying desperately to smile.
“My love, let us drop that subject,” and the thin bony hand waved it off into the air. “I have never told you anything about my school days, I think.”
“No, and I have so wished you would!”
“Why didn’t you ask me then?”
“I thought you had some reason for not talking about it, after you said my mother was a classmate of yours. I kept hoping you would speak of her.”
“There’s nothing special to tell about her,” said Miss Prigott, her old dry manner coming back. Indeed, I hardly remember her at all. She was a great beauty and an independent girl. Fun-loving, too.”
“Mrs. Lee said she was remarkable for her fine spirits.”
“Yes, yes, very boisterous, I remember.”
“Mrs. Lee did not say so,” said Lucy, uneasily.
“My dear, Mrs. Lee minces matters. That’s her way. Now I recollect distinctly that although your mother and Mrs. Lee were both members of the church, they used to amuse themselves by throwing beans and peas at the other girls.”
Lucy laughed privately down among the pillows, but the little sharp eyes detected her in the act.
“What are you laughing at?” she inquired.
“Oh, I don’t know. It seems so funny that my mother would ever have thrown peas at people,” and this time she laughed heartily.
“Funny! It was a very rude, improper thing. And they were members of the church!”
“I don’t see what that had to do with it,” said Lucy, turning restlessly on her pillow.
Miss Prigott looked aghast as she always did when pushed into a corner.
“Of course, there’s no use arguing with you!” she said.
“But Miss Prigott,” said Helen, who had been greatly amused by this conversation, “do you mean to say it is a sin to throw beans and peas at people?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Then why shouldn’t members of the church do it, as well as other people?”
“Because it is not becoming.”
“It isn’t becoming to anybody, I suppose. But if being a member of a church is going to make it wrong for me to laugh, I’m glad I’m not one, that’s all.”
Lucy’s eyes rested on Helen long after this remark was made. There was a levity in its tone that pained her. Helen felt the look, fidgeted under it, and pretended not to observe it, but at last cried, “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I’ll tell you, sometime,” said Lucy.
“Well, to return to your mother,” said Miss Prigott. “I remember she used to be after the young men a great deal.”
“Mrs. Lee said they used to be after her,” said Lucy.
“Well, that’s the same thing.”
“I don’t think so.”
“And let me tell you how she got me into disgrace once. I was studying grammar. I came to a word I could not parse, and as she sat near me, I asked her about it. She told me. Just then our teacher observed us speaking and marked us both. That mark ruined me. I had never had one before.”
“But I don’t see how my mother was to blame,” said Lucy.
“Oh, of course not. She’s your mother.”
“Yes, my mother,” repeated Lucy softly; yet concentrating in her tone so much reverent affection, that Miss Prigott was struck dumb.
“Well! She was the flower of the school, everybody agreed!” she said at last. “Beautiful and talented, and I don’t know what not. And she might have married the president, for all I knew. But she chose to go and throw herself away on a man nobody knew, a divinity student he was.”
“My Father!” cried Lucy. “Oh, Miss Prigott! Please don’t say anymore! I can’t lie here and hear you say such things!”
“Dear me!” said Miss Prigott, looking around astonished. “Did I say anything?”
“I know you don’t mean to be unkind, but you are. You do say such strange things! And Mrs. Lee says my father would have become a distinguished man if he had not lost his health, teaching to pay for his education, and all that.”
“Oh, of course. Everybody knew that. But what did he go and lose his health for? That was the most foolish thing he could have done.”
“Lucy looks very tired,” said Helen, “and Mama charged me to keep her quiet. She had to go out on business. There was a big fire last night, and some of her poor folks were left homeless.”
Miss Prigott caught at this intelligence with alacrity. “Why didn’t she take me?” she cried. “I’ll go this minute. Lucy, my dear, do you think you could spare me a little while?” Lucy smiled her assent and had the satisfaction of hearing the door soon close behind the active little woman, who sped so zealously on deeds of mercy.
“How tired you look!” said Helen, kindly. “She’ll kill you, I’m sure.” Lucy lay still and did not answer. She felt two-thirds “killed” already. “Is there anything I can do for you?” asked Helen, kneeling by the side of her couch. Lucy looked up and smiled.
“Dear Helen, there is one thing. If you would just read to me a little. One or two hymns.” Helen took Lucy’s little hymn book and began to read. The book was full of marks, so she read wherever she found one.
“These same hymns were my favorites once,” she said.
“And are they
not now?”
“No, not so much,” said Helen, shrugging her shoulders a little.
“I thought—I hoped you were a Christian,” said Lucy sadly.
“I thought so once, myself. A while ago when I was sick. But it all passed away as soon as I got well, and now, I’m as bad as ever.”
“Oh, Helen! And yet you seem in such good spirits!”
Mrs. Whittier now returned from her morning labors and came at once to see Lucy. “You and Miss Prigott have not been good nurses, I fear,” she said to Helen. “You look worn and tired, Lucy.”
“Miss Prigott fretted her,” said Helen.
“I charged her to avoid exciting subjects. She said she would enliven Lucy by talking of her mother.”
“Lucy has been enlivened to the last degree,” said Helen. “Miss Prigott was determined to torment her to death, but I drove her off.”
“You’ll have some rest now,” said Mrs. Whittier. “Come, Helen.” Helen waited a moment; stooped down to kiss Lucy, and whispered hastily, “But I’m not in good spirits,” then followed her mother.
Left alone after her long sleepless night, Lucy lay quietly and tried to rest. Anxious thoughts about home assailed her. The watch ticking beneath her pillow wearied her and above all, Helen’s last remark disturbed her serenity. She opened her precious little Daily Food and read here and there a verse until her heart found rest, though her head throbbed with fatigue and pain.
“Lying here doing nothing is the hardest work I’ve ever done in my life,” she said to her aunt when she came softly in two hours later.
“Have you slept at all today?” her aunt inquired.
“No, Aunt, I don’t think so. But I don’t mind. Please don’t look so anxious.”
“Will you be glad or sorry to learn that Miss Prigott is leaving us today?”
“Today!” cried Lucy. “I don’t know. I hoped to get well and be of some comfort to her. I don’t know how, exactly, but she has been very kind to me.”
“Mrs. Lee has just been here and has insisted on taking Miss Prigott home with her. She says you’ll never get well with her hanging around you, and I think she might be right.”
“Oh, please, please don’t let her go on my account! I never will get well if she does.”
“Don’t be uneasy, my dear. She enjoys visiting her friends, and Mrs. Lee is always hospitable and often has company. It will be a good thing for everyone involved.” Lucy said no more, but she felt sadly disturbed, and guilty.
“Why can’t I love poor Miss Prigott more?” she asked herself. “She’s so kind, and has been so friendly!”
Yet the certainty that Miss Prigott was going proved soothing. Under its influence, her weary eyelids closed and she slept quietly. Miss Prigott stole in on tiptoe to take a farewell look, and kneeling down by her side, lifted the thin hand tenderly and kissed it more than once. They all flattered themselves that everything had been so skillfully arranged, that the unsuspicious little woman was going in blissful ignorance of the facts of the case. But she had overheard an incautious whisper of Helen’s, had learned that they believed her absence essential to Lucy’s recovery, and her kind, busy heart was full. She said not a word, but speedily made her arrangements for leaving, and when Lucy awoke, she was already on her way. Lying back in the carriage with firmly closed eyes, she was lost in a painful reverie.
“From the very first hour I loved that young girl!” she said to herself; “and my foolish old heart hoped for love in return. So it is after fifty years’ experience of life; I am still childish, still hopeful, yet still disappointed.”
Two or three tears wet the faded, wrinkled cheek and humble, gentle emotions came with them. Mrs. Lee was struck with the subdued, mild air, so unusual and so unexpected, and went as far as possible in kindly attending to her guest.
“I won’t trouble you long,” said Miss Prigott. “My room will soon be ready for me in the country, and I’ll go there in a few days.”
“It’s too cold for the country yet,” said Mrs. Lee. “I hope you will spend some weeks with me.”
Miss Prigott was silent, and a dejected air hung unnaturally about her. Mrs. Lee sent for her little children; she knew no one could remain melancholy long around them. They came smiling in and Miss Prigott soon had a plump, happy little creature on a table before her, and was feeding it with sugarplums, with which she was always armed.
“You don’t know where I’ve been!” said the little one, archly.
“Where was it?” asked Miss Prigott.
“To a wedding! To my cousin Mary’s wedding!”
“Well, when I am married, will you come to mine?”
“Oh, you’ll never be married!” said the child, opening its astonished eyes very wide, and surveying the old, wrinkled face.
Miss Prigott never thought of such an event, yet the words of the child jarred painfully in her ear. To her mind they seemed to say, “Nobody can love you!” and so, cheerless and solitary, she went to her bed.