Chapter 15 The Seaside
Chapter 15
The Seaside
The hot, oppressive days in June hastened Mrs. Whittier’s preparations for their departure, and by the middle of the month, they were all set up for the summer near the seaside. Everything here was as new to Lucy as the great city they had left. Now for the first time, she saw and heard the ocean, and she saw it with no careless eye, listened to its music with no ordinary ear. She felt like throwing herself into its embrace, like the child that once asked, “Can anything so beautiful be dangerous?” Books seemed tame and lay neglected. But many voices spoke to her, the voices of many waters, that were full of life and truth.
Day after day slipped by, and rather than diminishing, her enthusiasm grew. Her aunt and Helen indulged her in her jubilation without entirely sharing in it. They had seen the sea all their lives, and if the truth be told, had caught the spirit of those about them who saw in the ocean nothing but a great swimming pool. Men, women, and children could dip and dive and spatter and splash, without wetting anyone’s blanket, or crowding anyone’s neighbor.
There is but a step between the sublime and the ridiculous; and she who sentimentalizes on the shore one minute, spouting, “Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll!” goes shrinking into it the next, gasping for breath, a sorry picture of “majesty stripped of its externals.” So fared Lucy, and her frolics and her laughter in the water were as genuine as her poetizing when out of it.
It soon became apparent to everyone that everyone had brought too many books, too many plans of all sorts, too many collars to embroider, too many slippers to embellish. There was positively no time for anything. What with swimming, dressing, conversing, and driving out, each day slipped away most unexpectedly. People sat with books in their hands, pretending to read. They brought out needlework, pretending to sew. They made desperate efforts to appear industrious and literary, but it didn’t work. Everybody saw through it, knew it was a great humbug, felt like a martyr, and said, originally, forty times a day, “Where does the time go?” But time never came back to tell where it went. There would have been a melancholy pleasure in knowing. One might at least have written its epitaph.
To Lucy’s observing eye, these months among people were full of amusement and instruction. Although she could not have told you what each man and woman wore on their backs, she could have given you a pretty good idea of what they carried in their heads. Here was Mrs. Somebody dressed as simply as a child, and there was Mrs. Nobody with a whole trunk full of magnificence flying from various points on her person. Here was Mrs. Smith, who wondered how “everybody” dared come here, even if they could afford to, which she doubted, and there was Mrs. Jones, who would enjoy herself amazingly if those Smiths had stayed at home. Mr. Tompkins pined for “high society,” and threatened every day to go somewhere else. Mr. Williams thought solitude charming and was often seen wandering off by himself, which everybody said was pride. Mrs. Perkins let her children eat everything; Mrs. Parkins wouldn’t let hers taste anything delicious, that they might learn self-denial. Mr. Simpson thought all the women should be like his wife. Mrs. Sampson was sure nobody had a husband like hers, which no one denied or cried about. Miss Irkton wished she could train all those dreadful children. Mrs. Lewis said that old maids should not come to swimming places and felt that no one but mothers could appreciate babies.
Lucy’s age forbade her from saying much so she saw and learned the more. She saw that everybody had faults, whims, hobbies; also, that everybody had good qualities, real and reliable. Even if Mr. Tompkins was lofty, he was also generous. If Mr. Williams was unsocial, he at least spoke unkindly of nobody. And although Mrs. Perkins did indulge her children, she indulged you too and would spend a whole day nursing you if you were sick and alone. And what if Mrs. Parkins did teach her children self-denial? Weren’t they the happiest family in the establishment, with her intense devotion and affection? All the books in the world could not have taught lessons as beneficial as Lucy was learning. Lessons of charity and “psalms of life,” that to the last hour of her existence made her more cheerful, more patient, more tender-hearted. She saw that she was not the only being in the world in whom humor, infirmity, and imperfection were to be found and that all wisdom and goodness were not locked up in her own head and heart. If her brothers and sisters had faults, they were not the worst in the world; and if they were dear and precious and affectionate, so were hosts of others. It is no small attainment to learn what to expect of the world in which we dwell. And it is not from books, however wise, but from living men and women, and children too, that we will learn it.
The season so profitable to Lucy proved unfavorable to Helen. She looked less into the heart of things, and more on the surface. She saw many professedly religious people doing things her conscience had forbidden, and so began to think she had been too strict. Then her very social disposition attracted her more and more to the company of the young people about her, and when with the Romans, she did as the Romans did.
She very soon found it difficult to keep up regular habits of devotion, and gradually grew somewhat careless regarding them. While Lucy resolutely hedged herself about with a habit of prayer, Helen wavered and was fitful in this respect.
“Mrs. Smith is a good woman, and yet she does so and so,” said Helen. “Therefore why shouldn’t I? Besides, no one wishes to look better than the rest.” Sometimes, when her conscience said, “You have not prayed today; go now,” she was talking with that delightful Miss Woodman, or kindly listening to tedious Mrs. Young. Then she would reply, “In a minute,” or, “How would it look if I should go and leave her?” or, “I’m sure I would be thankful to go pray if it were not for seeming to neglect Mrs. Young.” Yet the example of Lucy was a help to her. She saw that the business of her life was to serve God and that nothing was allowed to interfere with any one of the duties she owed Him, which she did evidently with pleasure, and out of pure love of His will.
“I’ll be glad when it comes time to go home,” Helen said one day to Lucy. “I am getting so tired of these people here. It is a clear waste of time to spend summers away from home.”
“How soon will we go?” asked Lucy.
“In a few weeks, I think. Papa must go then, and we may as well do the same. Don’t you think so?”
“Yes, indeed!” cried Lucy with so much energy that Helen could not help laughing.
“We must make up our lost time this winter,” she said. “I long to see how you’ll like Mr. Jackson. He’s considered an admirable teacher.”
“What do you mean, my dear Helen? I am going home as soon as we return to the city.”
“Oh! That is the reason you are so eager to cut short our stay here. But, Lucy, Papa says you won’t go home yet. He wrote to your father about it.”
“I must go. I wrote to Father that I’ll certainly be there by the first of October.”
Helen smiled and shook her head. “You know you are to stay until you are quite well; and besides, I’ve set my heart on having you at school with me. And Papa and Mama have been planning it all along. You know they think you must be the flower of your family.”
“There are nine more just such flowers,” said Lucy, smiling.
“I don’t believe it. And if there are, I don’t care. I’ll never like any of them as much as I do you.”
Lucy dismissed the subject at once from her mind. She felt her mother couldn’t spare her longer. Her health was now perfectly well, she felt anxious about John, and could have cried like a baby to see them all.
“Papa has written to your father to come here and talk the matter over. He was to meet us as soon as possible after our return.”
“He can’t leave home at this season.”
“Here he is, at any rate!” cried Helen, almost beside herself with delight at being able to announce him. “I was told to break it to you gently, and I’m sure I have, but you’re as pale as a sheet.”
Lucy was in her father’s arms, and she did not hear the concluding sentence. Surprise and joy made her lose her color for a moment, but it quickly returned, and as he held her out, and looked tenderly in her face, he thought he had never seen her so beautiful, so well in her life.
“How could you get away, dear Father?” she asked as soon as she had satisfied herself that he really was there by a long embrace.
“I just came!” he answered smiling.
“And how long can you stay? And did you come to take me home? And are they all well?” He sat down with her beside him and looked so satisfied, so happy, that she forgot he had not answered her questions.
“There are not many such children!” he thought.
Mr. and Mrs. Whittier and Helen now joined them, and there was a lot of talking and laughing and rejoicing. Yet Lucy’s oft-repeated question, “Have you come to take me home?” was not answered.
“Give your father a little peace,” said her uncle at last, “you do nothing but question him. Don’t you know it’s rude to ask people what they have come for and how long they’re going to stay?” Lucy smiled and held her peace, satisfied that all that her father did was right, content to wait for his answers. As he was about to retire for the night, he asked her jokingly if she would be ready to return with him in a day or two, and her animated reply made him smile, while it brought a cloud over Helen’s brow.
The next day they were all busy treating Mr. Grant like a celebrity. He had not enjoyed such a season of refreshment since the days of his youth, and Lucy enjoyed seeing him fish and swim and drive, so much that this seemed the happiest day she had ever spent. It proved an eventful one to her too, for she now learned that arrangements had been made for her to stay with her cousin, as Helen had assured her. Her aunt took her aside and made known all the plans that had been forming over the past few months and expressed her great joy at the prospect of keeping her yet longer.
“But I feel that Mother needs me at home,” said Lucy. Mrs. Whittier handed her the kind, cordial consent her mother had given to her remaining to attend school with Helen. When she looked up with a face radiant with gratitude to thank her aunt, she found herself alone.
“How can I ever thank them?” cried her full heart, “and how can I ever thank God for His goodness?” At this moment her father came in, very cheerful and happy, to congratulate her.
“Now your great wish is fulfilled,” he said.
“Father,” replied Lucy, “it ought to be Hatty.”
“What ought to be Hatty?”
“Why, you know how bright and pretty and lovable she is, and how she has always disliked the country, and I’ve been here for a long time and it’s her turn now.”
“As for the prettiness, I am no judge. You all look pretty to me. But as for the brightness and lovableness, why, I hardly think they need complain. Why should Hatty be brighter or more lovable than you?”
“Oh, because I’m older than she is.”
“Older than she! Dear child, how much older now?”
“A year and a half,” said Lucy, smiling at the apparent failure of her argument. “But I feel a good many years older. And now Arthur is provided for, I do wish it could be Hatty! Oh, how can I let you go home and tell her I’m well and strong, while staying here to enjoy a life of ease and pleasure, but she is to work and wear out at home?”
“I see how it is. You’re old in the experience of the cares of domestic life. I’m thankful you’re being released from that incessant drudgery and growing young again.”
“It wasn’t drudgery, Father; and, besides, even if it was, my absence adds more burden on Mother. It will be too hard for her!”
“To see you grow young again? Come, cheer up, darling! You know you can be of the greatest service to Hatty and all of them, by these advantages. Two years, or even three, are not a lifetime.”
“Two years! Oh, Father! I’m staying that long without seeing Mother?”
“That’s the hard part of it—hard for you and her and us all. But you know, my dear child, how gladly I would take you home with me if I could.”
“I can’t stay. I must see Mother and tell her how it hurts me to leave her, and hear her say she lets me go willingly.” She yearned to feel herself folded in her mother’s arms. Once there, she thought no temptation could tear them apart.
“My dear Lucy, I know you better than you know yourself,” said her father after a pause. “If in this moment of excitement, you decide to give up the opportunity for an education so freely offered to you, I’m sure you will regret it your whole life. You know that you have thirsted for knowledge ever since you can remember, above everything else.”
“Except goodness!” she said, gently.
“Except goodness!” he responded, laying his hand lovingly on her head. “Come, let me decide for you, as your mother has already done. You will stay.” She clung to him, dreading to ask how soon he would leave her. “Don’t let us be seen crying,” he said, hearing approaching footsteps.
“I didn’t know I was crying,” said Lucy, smiling away her tears. “I hope I am not ungrateful to Uncle and Aunt—but when I get thinking about home, I so wish I was there!”
Her uncle now entered. He was in fine spirits, and drew Lucy affectionately to his side, where she stood lost in thought, while he talked with her father. “Poor Mother!” she repeated to herself again and again. “Should I stay from her so long? How hard it is for her to lose us just when we are becoming useful! The baby will be a big boy before I see him again. And Arthur! Ah, nobody will watch him as I have! Nobody will have time. My absence will throw more labor on them all.”
Helen now came to express her pleasure. She caught Lucy in her arms and whirled her about the room, crying, “She’s mine! she’s mine!” until they were both out of breath and glad to sit down on the sofa. Helen’s excitement and joy did Lucy good. She was pleased that Helen had so much affection for her.
“I must return home tomorrow, Lucy,” said her father. “I must be on my way early in the morning, so if you wish to write, you must hurry.”
Lucy lost no time in writing, and her heart relieved itself as she wrote a long, glowing letter to her mother, full of love and tenderness and hope. And then a note to Arthur, dear boy! How her pen flew over her paper as she thought of him! And after that, a deprecating message to Hatty was added to her mother’s letter, as if it were wrong to be here if she must be there! As she wrote, and all their dear faces came to her mind, she felt tempted to exclaim, “I will not, I cannot stay!” Perhaps she would have, and our story would end here if she was used to obeying the voice of feeling rather than of conscience. But this opportunity might never return—she dared not neglect it. And there was not much time now for deliberation. Her father was preparing to leave and there were many last-minute things to be done, and amid the confusion, she could not realize what was happening.
“Oh, my God! Just let me do right!” was her reiterated prayer; and she rejoiced that she could add, “I delight to do your will, whatever it may be!”