Chapter 14 Cases of Conscience
Chapter 14
Cases of Conscience
As Lucy’s health continued to improve, she began a regular course of reading and study. Both Helen and Charles owned books that she had never had access to, and her old thirst for knowledge, though it had lain silent during her illness, seemed to have gained strength by its weeks of rest. Her love of schedules, thwarted all her life, started up now afresh. She divided her time into regular hours and no pursuit encroached on others.
Helen, meanwhile, devoted herself exclusively to religious reading. She had not attended school since her own serious illness, and now she began to dread returning to its temptations. She lost her interest in all her old pursuits and even began to regard everything not directly religious as dangerous and sinful. She withdrew not only from her former friends, but gradually from her own family, and spent her whole time in reading, meditation, and prayer. And while some Christian graces were exercised, and able to thrive in what appeared a favorable atmosphere, others of equal worth were left to dwindle and die. Her Christian character failed to attain the symmetry it obviously lacked. We are to live in the world, yet above it. Safety is not found in solitude, nor out of it, but in the happy mixture of the two.
“How long are we going to stay at the seaside?” Lucy inquired one day.
“About four months,” Helen answered.
“In that time, don’t you think I could learn to draw? That is, if you are willing to teach me.”
“Oh, do you want to learn to draw? What good will it do?”’
“I don’t know. But as I never can learn music, I would really like one accomplishment!”
“But what’s the use of drawing?”
“I wasn’t thinking of its uses; I was just thinking it would be fun. It would be an amusement to me my whole life; and useful too, I’m sure.”
Helen returned to her work in silence. She was making a mat for Miss Prigott, in a fanciful style that was in vogue.
“Don’t look so sober,” said Lucy at last, playfully. “It makes me think you are not exactly happy with me.”
“I’m confused,” replied Helen. “I don’t see where to draw the line between right and wrong. I had made up my mind not to draw anymore, and I was surprised to hear you say you want to learn.”
“I went through all the same troubles. If it hadn’t been for Father, I would have turned into a regular fanatic. I got so bad that I thought it was wicked, or something near that, to eat anything nice. I believed I shouldn’t indulge in amusements of any sort.”
“Well?”
“But Father said that that was slavery of the worst kind. That it grew out of a low perception of God. Just as if he were a taskmaster who wanted us to work all the time without any rest.”
“But we shall have time to rest when we get to heaven.”
“I don’t know how to argue about it, but I know Father made it very clear to me. He said God had given us tastes that could only be satisfied by indulgence and culture; for instance: music, painting, and all that. These pursuits cease to be innocent only when we put them in God’s place and love them more than we love Him.”
“And you haven’t the slightest hesitation about learning to draw?”
“No, not more than you have in wasting your precious time on that mat.” Helen smiled, and yet looked a little suspiciously at the mat. “Oh, I was only joking,” said Lucy.
“You were playing chess with Charles all last evening. I watched you, and you seemed perfectly enchanted at winning.”
“Yes, I always want to win!”
“Isn’t that selfish?”
“Yes, I suppose so. But I don’t pretend to be perfect.”
“But, Lucy, is it right to play chess all evening?”
“Any innocent recreation is right if it makes evenings pleasant. Father made a little set of chessmen and used to play with us all. He wanted us to enjoy home above any other place.”
“I thought your father was a very serious, silent man. I had no idea he would let you play anything.”
“That’s because you’ve never seen him. And I’ve quoted serious things he says, and none of the funny ones. He is a very serious man; but he likes to see us cheerful and happy—and besides, he has plenty of fun in his nature.”
“Well! I’ll teach you all I know about drawing, and I hope things will be clearer to me in time.’’
“They will, I don’t doubt. At first, we see ‘men as trees, walking;’ but after a while we see more clearly.”
They were interrupted by Mr. Whittier, who came to bring letters from home to Lucy—one from her mother, on a large sheet, on which Rebecca and Hatty had also written, and one from Arthur. Helen watched Lucy’s face as she hurried through the former, and a pang of jealousy as Helen saw how animated and joyous Lucy was.
“It is so good to hear from home!” said Lucy as she folded the large sheet. “But it makes me want to be there. I’m sure they need me, but they won’t admit it. It seems almost wicked for me to go off to the seaside for so many months, while they are all so busy at home!” She turned now to Arthur’s letter, and as she read that, her smiles grew less frequent and she sighed as if the remembrance of an old sorrow was awakened. It was a boyish, simple letter.
Dear Lucy,
I've got something to tell you that I am sure you won’t like, but I have to tell somebody and Father and Mother are full of care already. It is about John. He has taken it into his head to go to sea. About a month ago, Father let him go to Honeydale on business. He made friends with some wild fellows there who are going to sea, and they talked to him until he felt like he was a grown-up. He came home with his cap stuck on one side of his head, singing sailor songs. When Father scolded him for being gone so long, he admitted that he had been off in a boat with some other boys. Father was displeased and said he shouldn’t go to Honeydale again. It’s a wicked place. Well, the very next day, Mr. Robbins came to see us, and he told Mother he thought John was a very smart boy, and that he ought to be getting ready for college and offered to have him come to his study every day and learn Latin. But John wouldn’t listen to it; he told me then how he had set his heart on going to sea. Now, you know he isn’t old enough yet. Besides, he would get to be such a wicked boy, that I don’t like to think of it. I coaxed him to put off all thoughts of it until you come home, because two couldn’t be spared at once. But he’s just as fidgety as he can be, and those boys prowl around here sometimes, and they have money, and seeing it makes him wild. Please, dear Lucy, write to him and try to make him contented.
A few days ago, Mother told me that she had money in a bank in New York that would send me to college, but maybe you know that already. But if John insists on going to sea, I mean to go with him and I wish Father would take that money and pay off his debts. I’m learning from Mr. Robbins. He is a very good man and knows everything. But somehow, if I thought I wouldn’t be more of a man, I think I’d stick to farming. John is growing like a house on fire, Mother says. He seems to grow up fast. Some things he knows better than I do. Not things in books, but about men, and all that. Do write to him. Oh, how I miss you!”
Then followed a few lines, badly written and badly spelled, from John himself. Lucy was struck with their confident, bold tone. It seemed like the words of a boy of eighteen, rather than fourteen. How could he have grown old so fast? She sat down and wrote to him at once, and in her enthusiasm and trepidation, she told him that if he would promise not to say a word about going to sea until her return, which would be in a few months, she would give him money to take a long journey as soon as he could be trusted from home. She could resort to selling her watch. She thought anything was better than for such a boy to be left to go to ruin. She decided in this hour of anxiety not to use her watch. Since no questions were asked, she thought that no one observed that it was not worn.
She would have gladly hurried home, but she dared not even say that. She saw that both her aunt and Helen wanted her to accompany them, and they would be hurt if she suggested giving up a pleasure they had looked forward to for so long. Besides, when her friend Mrs. Lee came with Miss Prigott to say goodbye before going to the country for the summer, she assured Lucy that Dr. Thornton had spoken very decidedly about her not returning home yet, and she made her promise not to think of it. The matter was once more settled, and they began to prepare for their summer trip. Miss Prigott always went after mountain air somewhere. When one set of mountains failed to rejuvenate her, she sought new ones. She was determined that Lucy reap the benefit of her experience. Mrs. Whittier’s preference was the sea air, and she would not allow Lucy to be taken anywhere else. Miss Prigott grew warm on the subject and urged her loneliness as an argument in favor of her idea, which proved to be a plan to make Lucy her companion for the summer.
Finding her hopes blasted in the most summary manner by Mrs. Whittier, she said, “How could an old woman my age expect a young girl like Lucy to agree to accompany her? Without a father or mother, brother, sister, or child, how can I dream of anything better than solitude? And I ought to have learned better years ago!”
Lucy was touched by these words. She had never heard that Miss Prigott was so very lonely. She longed to throw her arms around the little wrinkled figure and tell her she would go with her anywhere and love her too. Perhaps nothing restrained her but an awful sense that Mrs. Prigott was not happy with all her vast wealth.
In a few moments, Mrs. Lee rose to go. Miss Prigott lingered behind and whispered to Lucy, “I hope you will be candid, my dear, and speak the exact truth. If I give up my mountain journey and follow you to the seaside, will you be sorry? Will you wish me away?”
Lucy answered truthfully, that far from being sorry, she would be very glad. This answer proceeded in part from a benevolent impulse, yet it was sincere.
“Thank you, my love. I won’t do it; I just wanted to know. And now, goodbye. May we soon meet again!” Lucy was conscious of a sense of relief when these last words were spoken, and she was disappointed in herself.
“Well, I guess I’m not perfect!” she thought. “I wish I was! I wish I were more like Christ! He is no respecter of persons!” Then she thought His eye detected real grace and goodness in poor Miss Prigott, or at least, desire for goodness; and that the life blessed by His approval and presence was not, after all, solitary.