Chapter 13 The Storm Before the Calm
Chapter 13
The Storm Before the Calm
Whether due to Miss Prigott’s departure or to a favorable change in the weather, Lucy began rapidly to improve. Dr. Thornton’s visits became few and short and finally ceased. Reading was now allowed, letters home could once more be written, and her life was busy and happy. Dr. Thornton and her aunt decided that she must not return home for some months, and Helen was reveling in the thought that during their summer travels she would be with them.
The letters from home all assured Lucy that she could be spared from among them, for this necessary season of refreshment and rest. One evening Helen came to sit with Lucy and they talked over their summer plans. “We must take books with us,” said Helen. “I’m sure I don’t know what, but books we must have.”
Lucy named several she wished to take. One of them was The Imitation of Christ.
“That’s as dry as chips,” said Helen. “How can you want to read such books?”
“It doesn’t seem dry to me,” said Lucy. “If it did, I guess I wouldn’t want to read it.”
“But it puzzles me when I see how interested you are in religious books. I don’t understand it. Even when I was thinking myself a Christian, I must admit they did seem dry.”
“What, all religious books?” Helen deliberated a little.
“All but a few hymns.”
“Perhaps your youth is to blame for that. I don’t know. I’m sure there was a time when I didn’t relish Thomas à Kempis, because I didn’t understand him.”
“But even those I did understand, I didn’t like very much. If I had my choice, I would have read nothing but stories and poems. I am not allowed to read novels yet.” Lucy didn’t reply. She felt puzzled now.
“Do tell me,” said Helen abruptly, “do tell me one thing, if you don't mind. Do you really like to read religious books?”
“Yes, I really do.”
Helen sighed. “And do you like the pious talk these good sorts of people forever keep up?”
“I do when it comes right from their hearts. I don’t like anything that isn’t genuine.”
“And you enjoy Miss Prigott’s sanctimonious talk, and all that?”
“No, I didn’t say I like sanctimonious talk.”
“But tell me, am I such a heathen? Am I so much worse than you? For such talk as Miss Prigott’s enrages me. I can’t bear it. She could talk to me forever and do me no good. When I’m with her, I feel that I never want to be a Christian.”
“Oh, dear! what can I say? I’m not much older than you, Helen. I am not fit to talk with you about this. But surely it’s not Miss Prigott’s religion that makes her disagreeable. You don’t know how much worse she might be without it.”
“So Mama says. But Lucy, let me ask one more question. You don’t need to answer it if you don’t wish to, but I really want to know.” She crept close to Lucy’s ear and whispered, “If you knew you could get to heaven with just what goodness you have now, would you still keep on praying and trying to grow better?”
“I wouldn’t want to live another moment if I could not pray,” said Lucy earnestly.
“Then there is something in religion, after all. And something I know nothing about. Oh, Lucy! Seeing you from day to day has made me so dissatisfied with myself, has put such new thoughts in my mind!”
She retired to her room and threw herself across her bed in tears. Her life seemed full of mistakes, full of contradictions, full of sins. She thought she would give all she possessed in the world for that peace with God that Lucy understood, while to her it was such a mystery. Underneath her misery, however, lay a latent satisfaction with the tears she was shedding. She had a vague hope that they were tokens of repentance and proved her acceptance with God. For the moment, she forgot that her room had witnessed many scenes like this.
Lucy, meanwhile, had closed her door, and was thanking God that He had used her in accomplishing one of His plans. She felt humbled by His goodness, and it seemed to her that if He would only take her and use her just as He pleased, and let her do something for Him, who had done so much for her, she could ask for no greater happiness. When they met again, Helen appeared very much as usual, but there was a new expression of holy peace and gratitude on Lucy’s face. Helen observed it with a pang.
“Why can’t I feel as she does?” she asked herself. Ever since Lucy’s arrival, she had watched and unconsciously studied her. She had loved her almost from the first hour and admired her too; and the next step after love and admiration is imitation. She wished to be like Lucy. But in many things, Helen was a mere child. Life had always smiled on her and had given her all she asked for. She had never known a real sorrow or real deprivation. She never had to make any effort to win a desired object. But the “kingdom of heaven suffers violence, and the violent take it by force.”
“I won’t rest until all is right with me,” she said one day to Lucy, in answer to an anxious look. She was dancing and singing about the house, and in no mood to be restrained even by a look. But though it half displeased her, it drove her to her room and to her knees, and for a brief season to reflection.
Less than an hour later, she came to Lucy with tickets for a concert in her hand. “Look!” she cried joyously, “tickets for the concert this evening! Papa took the trouble to go to Dr. Thornton to ask if you can go out, and he says you may—in the carriage, of course. Isn’t it delightful?” Lucy laid aside the book she was reading and looked at the tickets in silence.
“I thought you would be so pleased!” said Helen in a disappointed tone. “I took it for granted you had never heard fine music, and after being cooped up so long, it would be delicious to get out once more!”
“Dear Helen, and so it would, if I were sure—if I only knew one thing for certain. If all is right with you!”
Helen colored. She felt irritated and embarrassed. “I don’t want to be driven in this way. You are getting as bad as Miss Prigott. Stiff and prim! I’m sure I didn’t dream of committing a sin by just going to a concert!” Amid her anger, she saw Lucy’s face, so grieved, yet so loving, so lovely! It haunted her as she flew back to her room, and for a season it made her indignant tears flow faster.
Meanwhile, Lucy sat as one benumbed. All had passed so rapidly that she could hardly realize that a great gap separated her from Helen, that her dearest friend in this great busy city was alienated from her.
“Have I done wrong?” asked her bewildered conscience, and she knew not what to say. She thought it over, tried to recall her words, tones, and looks. “I’m always making mistakes!” she said to herself. “Always. And now I’ve offended Helen and have done so much harm!”
Great sorrows drive every Christian to God, but we are too prone to try to bear our little trials alone. We believe such petty concerns are beneath His notice. Yet, one day it may appear that the mountain was only a hill, and the great burden but a grain of sand. We must throw ourselves as children on Him. We must be willing to ask His will in the smallest concerns of life; to seek His compassion and sympathy in every pain we bear. Let Him be the judge of their worth and consequence. God weighs differently. Lucy struggled to recover herself in vain. In vain she assured herself that such a little incident was not worth praying about. Perhaps there was a vague notion in her mind, that she would not have dared shape into words—that God should not be required to notice our petty cares and desires. These are not humble views of ourselves and our interests, they are low, inadequate views of Him.
But at last, she laid aside the book she was reading to try to forget herself, rose hesitatingly, closed her door, and stood leaning against it, as if still in doubt. Why should she linger? Had she not carried to the ear of her Father more than one trial, not greater than this?
“I must find consolation somewhere!” she cried at last. And then she was on her knees confessing her ignorance and seeking direction and did find solace. She then sat at her table and wrote a little note to Helen, so kind, so loving, so Christian! Surely this must succeed! She went to Helen’s door and knocked. There was no answer. She tried to open it, but it was locked. She waited a moment, then, pushing her little note under the door, she returned to her room.
Helen had shed floods of passionate tears, and was sitting forlorn and wretched at her window, looking down on the street. She watched the passersby with a moody, unsympathizing manner, even with a sort of disgust at their life and activity, while her own soul felt so dead. Perhaps every one of these despised people would have gladly exchanged homes with her. Very few, if any, of them were hurrying to such a room as hers. None were going to a larger, more airy, or more luxurious home. She saw a little figure, almost bent double with age and infirmity. Empty basket in her hand, she had patiently sold apples and candies all day off a stone step. After a long day in the streets, she heads for her room down that long, dirty street, and up, up, up those narrow, noisy stairs, and into that small and crowded room. Naughty children quarrel and shriek all through that street. Every door sends out half a dozen of them, with white heads, and grimy faces, and bare legs and feet. Older children, too, congregate at all the corners; heads not so white, faces not so grimy, legs and feet not bare. Yet the corruption from within staring from the red eyes; and the voices harsher, the words more profane, the whole manner more revolting.
Streams of liquid filth flow down this street, unfit for the abode of wild beasts, and sin and sorrow and clamor and crime brood over it and claim it as their own. Yet here the sweet word “home” dares to stake a claim. Here the little bent figure pauses and has found hers. How cheerily would she exchange it for Helen’s home; how speedily lay those weary limbs on that soft, clean bed; how sure of happiness in that stately mansion! Yet if peace with God has found its way into that old heart, it may see nothing in Helen to envy; and that wretched child may gladly exchange all the luxuries of her outer life for one glimpse of the joy that adorns and illumines the poorest Christian soul.
“What harm is there in going to a concert,” said Helen, “that she need have looked so solemn about it! And I plan to go, whatever she says. She can stay at home and mope. I don’t care; I will go.”
Something within feebly scolded her for this injustice. It said, “You know perfectly well why she wanted you to relinquish, for once, even an innocent pleasure. You paved the way for her to say what she did, by your own remark.”
She rose hastily and left her room. It was growing dark, and she did not notice the note Lucy had left beneath her door.
“Are you ready for the concert, dear?” her mother asked pleasantly, as she entered her room.
“I don’t care about going. Lucy doesn’t seem to wish to go.”
“That’s very unusual. But one dreads going out after confinement to a sick room. I’ll speak to her myself.”
“I think, dear,” she said, entering Lucy’s room, “that it would really do you good to go out this evening. Do you not enjoy music?”
“Oh, yes, very much. And I never attended a concert in my life.”
“Helen must have misunderstood you, then. She thought you didn’t want to go. It’s time to dress. We must hurry away, right after tea.”
“Is Helen going, Aunt?”
“Certainly, but she’s not dressed either. I’ll tell her there’s no time to lose.”
“Is she really going, after all?” thought Lucy sadly. “Can she go, and enjoy it?” She dressed, hardly knowing what she put on, and went down to tea.
“Miss Prigott ought to be here to set you straight,” said Charles, as she entered the room.
“Why, is there something wrong?”
“No, only you look as if you lost your collar.”
“I look as if I didn’t put it on,” she answered, laughing, and running back for it.
Helen met her on the stairs and felt displeased that she could run joyously about the house when she knew how miserable she was. She pushed by without a smile of greeting and went loftily to the table where her mother was now seated. Lucy, meanwhile, in passing Helen’s room, saw her little note lying on the floor, and hastily picking it up, saw that it was unopened. Her eyes filled with tears, and she felt aggrieved. As she sat down at the table, she saw that Helen wore a resigned, martyr-like expression, and she carefully avoided every little attention she tried to pay her. If she spoke, Helen did not hear. If she offered to help her to any bowl, she did not see. And when they were all at last seated in the carriage, Helen was missing. Her father did not like waiting for his family. He was always punctual and required them to be so. He ran impatiently into the hall, where she stood with her bonnet in her hand.
“Why are you keeping us all waiting?” he asked, a little sharply.
“I’m not going; I prefer to stay home,” she answered.
“Why, you foolish child, come along. You’ve been begging to go all week.”
“I won’t go; so there!” She startled herself in speaking to her father this way. He looked highly displeased, and went out, closing the door violently behind him.
“Isn’t she coming?” asked her mother, as the carriage drove off.
“No! She’s been in such a mood lately.”
“Let’s not go without her; I don’t think she’s well. She didn’t say a word to me about staying home. At least, not after she found that Lucy was going.”
“She’s well enough, she’s only out of humor about something. I’m sure she already regrets staying behind. It will be a good lesson for her.”
“I would prefer to return,” said Mrs. Whittier
He replied in a low voice and Lucy thought he said something about “not disappointing” her.
“Oh, don’t go on my account!” she cried.
But her uncle didn’t reply, and they drove on, all thoroughly uncomfortable, but Lucy most of all. The brilliantly lighted, well-filled hall, dazzled and excited her. The youthful performers, all clad in pure white, and making such melody as she never had dreamed of, seemed like angels in heaven. She almost imagined she was there. How much she would have enjoyed it, had Helen only given her a parting smile as she left or sat now by her side, loving and joyous as usual! Her aunt watched her and was pleased with her rapt attention. She had a slight suspicion that all was not harmony between her and Helen. If her heart unconsciously said, Lucy must be at fault, let no one fault her for it. Who will judge a child charitably, if not their mother?
As they drove home, Mr. Whittier asked, “Well, Lucy, have you enjoyed the evening?
“Yes sir, very much,” she answered.
“I’m afraid Helen could not have said as much if you were left out,” said her aunt, in a tone half playful, half-serious.
Lucy blushed. Her spirit rose against this unjust suspicion. She was on the point of saying, “I did not deserve that!” She had been excited into high spirits by all she had seen and heard this evening, now came the reaction. “This is such a world!’’ was her mournful sigh, as she leaned back in the carriage, restraining her tears.
“Helen went to her room, and asked not to be disturbed,” said Charles as they entered.
Without laying aside her bonnet, the anxious mother headed to Helen’s room. She found her lying on the bed, apparently asleep. Her face looked flushed and swollen. She had been crying—that was obvious.
“Are you asleep, darling?” she whispered.
“No, Mama, but if you would just leave me alone this once!” she answered peevishly.
“There’s something wrong here,” said her mother, “and I need to know what it is.” She set her candle on the table and deliberately took off her bonnet, shawl, and gloves. Helen watched her. She understood the air of decision with which all was quietly done, and a defiant spirit rose within her.
“I won’t speak another word,” she thought.
“Now, my dear,” said Mrs. Whittier, drawing a comfortable chair to the side of the bed.
Helen now sat upright on the bed. Her eyes were heavy, and her hair hung about her face, damp and disordered. She looked steadily at her mother but was silent.
“What is the trouble?” repeated Mrs. Whittier. “Is something wrong between you and Lucy?”
Still no answer.
“Will I find the explanation in this note?” asked her mother, taking Lucy’s note from the table.
Helen leaned over to look at it. Surprise conquered her resolution not to speak. “I don’t know what that is!” she cried. “Give it to me, please.” She seized it eagerly, opened and read it, and burst again into tears.
“May I read it?” asked her mother, who was now seriously concerned. Helen wept on violently and didn’t reply; but as she heard the paper rattle in her mother’s hands, she made no effort to stop her, and it was read. A loving, touching appeal it was. Mrs. Whittier’s heart was moved. She felt that she had been unfair to Lucy, and her heart yearned toward her.
“Oh, my daughter! What can you have done to grieve this dear girl?” she cried. Helen was melted now. She tried to explain, but her tears choked her. She got up from the bed and threw herself into her mother’s arms.
“Oh, Mama! I have been so rude, so unkind to her! And only because she wanted me not to go to the concert.”
“But I don’t understand. Why did she not want you to go?”
“That’s the worst part of it, Mama. It was because she was afraid it would divert my mind from something better. Ask her, Mama, she’ll tell you.”
Mrs. Whittier went at once to Lucy. She found her still up, apparently reading.
“My dear Lucy, Helen has sent me to you. She says she has treated you unkindly and seems greatly distressed about it. She says you will tell me the whole affair.”
“It was nothing, dear aunt. I’m sure I was wrong myself. Helen told me, a few days ago, that she had once thought herself a Christian, but that she did not think so now. She seemed thoughtful at times, and as if she wished to be one in earnest. And when she said she was going to the concert, I was afraid it would distract her mind, and before I knew it, I had said something—I don’t remember exactly what—about her staying at home, and she was hurt; then I was so sorry!”
Her aunt kissed her. “May God bless you!” she said fervently. “I thank Him for sending you to us. Shall I tell Helen you forgive her? I think she will hardly sleep, otherwise.”
“Dear Aunt! I had nothing to forgive! May I go to her, just for a minute?” Her aunt assented, and waited outside Helen’s door, that they might speak without restraint, and when Lucy came out, her step was lively as a glad child’s.
“And now, my dear Helen,” said Mrs. Whittier, “I want you to go to bed. No more of this excitement tonight.”
“Oh, Mama! How can I sleep, after being so terrible, so angry?”
“Think of the Friend of sinners, my child.”
“Mama, could you pray with me? Dear mama, don’t you think you could?”
Mrs. Whittier hesitated. Only a very few months of Christian life had she known, and she had never prayed with Helen. God’s ear alone had heard her petitions on her behalf. Yet surely this was no time for earthly fear. She knelt with the two hot hands in hers and forgot that she was not alone.
“Put yourself right at the foot of the cross,” she whispered, as they rose from their knees, “and lie there tonight.”
“It is the only place I’m fit for,” said Helen, and thus repentant and humble, she retired to rest. And in the valley of humiliation, there are green pastures. How strange that one who has rested there would ever pine for the mountaintops!
When Helen awoke the next morning, she felt like walking softly all day. She went early to Lucy’s door to tell her how sorry she would be, all her life, for those angry words. Then to her father, with whom she was so thankful to make peace. She seemed very sorrowful for many days, and Lucy put aside all other activities to devote herself to her. Together they read the Bible, and when Helen in a kind of gloomy despair, found and dwelt on those passages that described the exceeding sinfulness of sin, Lucy always had a host of precious promises ready to meet them. When Helen spoke of herself and was saddened with all she saw of her own heart, Lucy spoke of Christ, until the glow and fervor of her words awakened a kindred glow in her eager listener.
And so, step by step, Helen was led on, giving herself in earnest to the influence of God’s Spirit, and thankful to sit as a little child at the feet of any true Christian who would teach her the way heavenward. There was no fear of her taste being offended now. She was too anxious to know and feel the truth. Lucy saw with delight, almost with enthusiasm, that even Miss Prigott was welcomed and treated with respect, and that her words were received with as much gratitude now, as previously with disgust.
And so, it will ever be with the earnest seeker after life eternal. What does it matter to the drowning man, what method is used to save him from death? And when Helen found herself breathing a new atmosphere and felt within herself the first struggles of the Christian life, the affections of that whole household encircled Lucy as the instrument in God’s hand of so great a blessing. It was the happiest hour she had ever known, for the highest honor God can lay on His children is to permit them to do something for Himself.