Chapter 16 Life at School
Chapter 16
Life at School
Immediately on their return to the city, both Lucy and Helen began to attend school. Lucy met with some difficulties at first. Her education had been quite fragmented, and it required time to put her on the same level as her new companions. It soon appeared, however, that in some respects she was superior to them all. Her general knowledge was quite remarkable for her age and circumstances. Her tastes were refined and mature, and her lively imagination made her often brilliant. Those who smiled at her country upbringing at first, taking for granted that nothing but ignorance and dullness led to her modest, shy manner, shortly became her admirers and friends. Every week her teacher returned her “composition,” adorned with approving marks. His goal with his students was to excite their ambition. He did not mind appealing to their pride and vanity, and Lucy’s talents won his genuine admiration. He pressed her with studies she was only too willing to take on, selected for her a course of reading, boasted of her success everywhere, and even wrote a glowing letter to her parents, congratulating them on raising such a child. Her uncle could not sufficiently rejoice that he had rescued her from the home in which he imagined that she was not appreciated. In his satisfaction, he went so far as to persuade himself that he had detected her remarkable talents during his visit to her father’s and therefore brought her here.
“What a providential thing it was that I was so struck with her!” he said more than once to Mrs. Whittier, who smiled a little, but would not argue. Less prosperous days have turned older heads than Lucy’s, and so have been exchanged for long nights of weeping. But God had abundantly blessed to her heart the discipline by which, through many years, He had been preparing her for these very temptations. Now she so loved and longed for His favor and approval, as to feel the worthlessness of that of the world. “None of these things move me!” is the triumphant exclamation of many a saint, when tempted by all the honors life can offer, to steal from the imperishable rewards awaiting him on high.
Mr. Jackson, who was always trying experiments in the management of his students, opened this new term with the offer of prizes in all the departments, except the one Lucy belonged to. He privately whispered to her and her classmates, that they needed no such rewards to persuade them to study. At first, Helen had a little hesitation about competing, but finally entered her name. She soon manifested great zeal and energy. One evening when she had been hard at work for several hours, reviewing old lessons, Charles came sauntering in and threw himself listlessly on the sofa.
“How busy you girls are!” he said. “Come, Helen, put away those old books and read me that French story. You know you promised to read it someday this week.”
“I’ll certainly keep my promise, but I can’t now. I am reviewing Algebra, and you don’t need to be surprised if you see me very industrious nowadays.”
“I thought industrious people could find time for everything.”
“Of course not! There you are quite mistaken. But don’t talk to me now, please, for I’m going to work on a problem a mile long. Yes, every bit of a mile long.”
“Let me see it!” cried Charles, with pretended curiosity. “A mile long! What remarkable girls you must have at your school! We boys never dream of problems more than two feet long, at the most.”
Helen laughed. “What a good-for-nothing boy you are!” she said. “You know very well what I meant. Perhaps you don’t know the difference between literal and figurative language!”
“Dear me! How wise we’re getting!” said Charles, provokingly. But Helen would not be provoked; she let him laugh until he was tired, while she went on half aloud.
“Let me see: x represents the sugar; y, the tea; z, the—what’s z represent? Oh, I see—the coffee; no—not the coffee, either. Why, I’m as stupid as an owl tonight.”
“Is that so unusual?”
“Oh, Charles! Please don’t look over my shoulder. Nothing distracts me like having people looking over my shoulder.”
“People?” said Charles. “What people? Am I people? Yes, she must mean me, there’s no one else in the room. Well, I never knew I was a plural number before! But this must be figurative language!”
“Oh, Charles! You are a real torment!” said Helen.
“That’s literal, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Charles,” said Helen, now laying down her slate, “Do go away. Come on, I’ll tell you why I am so anxious about this lesson. Mr. Jackson offered a prize that I really want to win. I meant to keep it a secret, but there’s no use.”
Charles could not resist the tone in which these words were spoken, but neither could he refrain from saying, “I don’t think much of prizes anyhow.”
“Don’t you? But why not? I’m very sorry.”
What boy ever gave a reason for his beliefs? “I don’t know why,” he said. “I don’t like them, because I don’t!” and away he ran, leaving Helen to return to x, y, and z, which she did until her head ached.
The hope that the prize would be hers, and with it her father’s satisfied smile, her mother’s gentle caress, made her lose sight of and forget other interests. The lamp-mat that she had started in honor of Miss Prigott’s approaching birthday, was thrust hastily into a bag already ready to burst from its collection of similar fragments. A bright handkerchief, in process of hemming for the cook, shared a similar fate. Every night when she retired to her room, her mind was so filled with the thought of school, and so wearied with the labor she had imposed on it, that she approached with reluctance this time of devotion. She would then force herself through her usual duties, and go to bed in a most cheerless state. “It shouldn’t be like this,” she would say to herself, “and tomorrow I will not allow the thought of that foolish prize to distract me so! But there is one good thing! When all is over, I’ll be free again. Now I must get along as well as I can.”
One must live many more years than Helen had, to be quite free from such mistakes as this. What a blessed day that is, when we learn to expect nothing better from life than distractions; nothing better from our own hearts than a careless absorption in every petty, passing interest! Then we throw ourselves on the simple grace of God, forsaking forever the imagined stronghold of our own good purposes.
When Helen awoke on the morning after her conversation with Charles, all the interests of her school life rushed, like armed men, to meet her. In the very midst of earnest words of prayer, her plans for the day came to claim attention. Her thoughts wandered to her books and studies, and then, urged back to their solemn task, came reluctantly, and flew away from her grasp.
But that struggle with temptation was not lost. How full of love and tender compassion was the invisible, yet present Savior before whom she knelt! How willingly He accepted that poor, feeble, half-uttered prayer, and how that sigh for deliverance found its way to the ear of Him who has been touched with the feeling of our infirmity! And when Helen walked sadly to school, filled with self-scolding, yet too weak in faith to tear herself at once away from temptation, shall we doubt that Jesus Himself went with His little disciple, pitying and resolving to rescue her?
“How glad I’ll be when Helen is herself again!” sighed her mother more than once. She thought it not best, however, to interfere with her in her present mood. Experience is a good teacher; without her instructions and discipline, no character is complete. All the mother’s wisdom fails to provide her child with the wisdom each must acquire for herself.
“Hurray! Here she comes, prize and all!” shouted Charles, as one day, on his return from school, he met Helen at the door, smiling and blushing and bearing a large package in her arms.
“Did you bring that home yourself?” he cried.
“No, Mr. Jackson sent it for me. I found it at the door.”
She looked around for her mother’s smile and kiss, and for a moment they made her completely happy.
“I’m glad you’ve got this pretty desk,” said Charles, removing its covering. “There’s that hateful Mary Anna Milman. She expected it, didn’t she?”
“She’s not hateful at all, but my dearest friend!”
“I think she’s hateful,” retorted Charles. “Her hair is as red as fire, and when she walks, she goes mincing along. Look! On her tiptoes; like this. I can imitate her perfectly.”
Helen was tired and excited. She had been through a long public examination and her head ached.
“You are very unkind, Charles,” she said indignantly; and as usual when angry, she ran to her room, crying with all her heart.
“Mama,” said Charles, replying to his mother’s glance of regret, “I really didn’t mean to anger her. The least thing makes her cry.”
“She has over-exerted herself, and we should make some allowance for that,” she answered. “You know I begged you to try to enter into her joy if she won the prize. After all, it’s worthless to her without our approval.”
“Well, Mama, I tried to show my approval. I didn’t know Mary Anna Milman was her dearest friend. And her hair is red and everybody knows it, and she minces when she walks. I don’t see how Helen can endure her.”
“But the truth should not be spoken all the time, my dear boy, unless it’s necessary. Suppose I take this opportunity, when you are annoyed, to point out Carlo’s faults. Wouldn’t you find it an ill-chosen time? And, since you couldn’t cry like a girl, wouldn’t you rush from the room in a passion, like a boy?”
Charles smiled. “Oh, I guess you’re right, Mama. I do wish I could help teasing Helen. But it is such fun! I wish you could be a boy for five minutes and see what fun it is!” His mother said she felt very submissive to the fate that had excluded her from such fun.
Mr. Whittier now came in to dinner, and as they seated themselves at the table, he missed Helen.
“Where is Helen?” he asked.
“She’ll be here soon,” said her mother, who did not care to annoy him with the information that she was crying in her room. But Charles volunteered the intelligence without delay.
“What is she crying for?” asked her father. “Has she lost the prize? Well, I’m glad about it. I never liked this system of competition. Now that it’s over, I hope she’ll honor us all with a little attention.” Her mother explained that the prize was safely in Helen’s possession.
“Then why is she crying?” persisted her father.
“She got angry with me,” said Charles, “because I teased her about her ‘dearest friend,’ as she calls her.”
“She was very tired, Uncle,” said Lucy, “and she had a headache when she went to school.”
Mr. Whittier said no more, and dinner was anything but a social meal that day. Lucy slipped away as soon as possible to find Helen and tried to persuade her to eat something, but she lay rather obstinately on her bed and looked quite unlike a heroine. Her mother soon followed Lucy. She had a little tray in her hands, on which was a cup of tea and a bit of toast.
“Come, Darling,” she said, “you must have this.”Helen rose and obeyed in silence, and Lucy left them alone, knowing a mother’s sympathy was best.
“Mama!” said Helen, “I hope you don’t think I’ve been crying all this time at what Charles said. I was annoyed at first, but I soon got over that. But I was so disappointed! I thought it would give me such pleasure to win the prize; I worked so hard for it! And it seems now such a trifle to sacrifice all those months for!”
“I understand it all, my dear child. But I must have you rest now. Lie down again and sleep, I’m sure you need it.”
Caressed and soothed by her mother’s soft hands, Helen’s tears soon ceased. She became quiet and composed, and at last fell into a refreshing sleep. Mrs. Whittier sat and watched the young sleeper, as an angel sits and watches, and loves. Gladly would she bear all the disappointments, trials, and sorrows life can offer if her child could be spared them. But this cannot be. The most a loving mother can do is pity and pray for their loved ones; each one must suffer for himself and suffer alone.
Helen awoke refreshed and thanked her mother with many grateful caresses, for her gentle watch over and sympathy with her. When left alone, she sat some minutes in thoughtful silence. Now that all excitement was over, she felt that she had been selfish, careless, and peevish during many months; and all to gain a momentary pleasure. And this pleasure was not so real, so substantial as she had expected it to be. It was, moreover, dampened by the fact that some of her schoolmates envied her, while others disputed her right to the prize. These little school experiences are of service, however, to a heart once turned heavenward. They were so to Helen. She felt now, and feeling led in time to conviction, that she never could be satisfied with mere worldly honor, and that she must give herself with more earnestness to the love and service of God. She knelt and prayed as these thoughts urged her; and as she prayed, the petty interests and disappointments of life grew more and more insignificant. Nothing seemed worthy of her pursuit but the fear of God and the love of Christ.
Thus, humble and happy, she went now to join her mother and Lucy. Her father was in the hall. She ran to meet and kiss him, and help him take off his coat, as she had not found time to do lately. Nothing but a certain feeling of timidity, a consciousness of the source of her present peaceful and loving mood, restrained her from kissing everyone in the house. Charles was alone in the dining room, reading or trying to read—for he was a very poor scholar—the French story he had often vainly asked Helen to read to him. She sat down by him and whispered, “I’m sorry I was vexed with you about Mary Anna.” He looked up, astonished. Never had her pride allowed her to make any apology of this sort. He did not answer, for he felt embarrassed, and didn’t know what to say.
“After tea, I’ll read that story, if you’ll let me after making you wait so long,” she continued.
“The reason I wanted you to read it was because Barrows and I argued about one part. I wanted to ask you what you thought.”
“Lucy’s thoughts are worth more than mine. Why didn’t you ask her?” asked Helen.
“Does Lucy read French?” he asked in surprise.
“Of course she does. Mr. Lennox says he’s never been prouder of any student.”
After tea, Helen read the story and her father laid aside his paper to listen. She then hemmed the cook’s handkerchief, so long buried in the depths of her work bag.
“You look tired, Helen,” said her mother. “Do something fun until bedtime.”
“She has worked too hard lately,” said her father, “and must unbend her mind a little.”
Helen laughed, and let her father pinch her cheeks at his leisure.
“Come, I’ll tell you all a story,” he said.
Charles, who was busy in a private attempt to dress Carlo in Dinah’s new handkerchief, instantly snatched this unwelcome fabric from the poor dog’s head and moved near his father. Lucy and Helen also prepared to listen, and Mr. Whittier began:
“There was once a man who said to himself, ‘I’m going to walk across the world, and see what there is on the other side.’”
“Oh, what a fool!” cried Charles.
“Perhaps he was insane,” suggested Helen.
“The man set forth on his journey, and proceeded to follow his nose, wherever it led him, provided it led in a direct line, diverging neither to the right hand nor the left. Pretty soon he ran bolt up against another man, who was walking in an opposite direction. The collision knocked the other down.
“‘What a cruel monster to run over a blind man!’ cried the bystanders.’
“The man did not stop to explain his conduct. He felt too eager and anxious; and so, he hurried along in a straight line, until he came to a little child that had fallen on the pavement.
‘“Mama, Mama! I want my mama!’ shrieked the child.
“‘Run home to her, then, and move out of my way,’ said the man.
“But the child lay on his face and cried louder than ever. The man’s heart smote him. He knew he ought to lead the little one to his home, but that would take him out of his way. The man stepped over the child and proceeded on his journey.
“Soon he came close to a house. He opened the window and stepped in.
“‘A thief! a thief!’ cried the children, as the stranger appeared in the room. In rushed the father, the mother, and the maids armed with pokers and brooms.
“‘Listen!’ shouted the man, trying to raise his voice above the tumult. ‘I have taken a vow to walk straight through the world. Allow me to pass through your house, and I never will disturb you again.’
“‘Don’t talk to me about your vows!’ cried the enraged father, striking him with the poker.
‘“He is a thief! He will be robbing us all!’ cried the mother.
“‘Let’s throw him out the window,’ said the maids.
“So out the window, they threw him.
“‘I’ll have to begin all over again,’ said the man, as soon as he picked himself up. ‘But wait; couldn’t I climb over this house?’
“With incredible exertion, aided by lightning rods, shutters, chimneys, and the like, the man at last succeeded in accomplishing this plan, while the owner of the house ran to summon the police, and the children cried within.
“He now went rapidly on his way in the open country, where neither men, children, nor houses stopped his progress. He went through ditches, he trampled down sweet flowers, he ascended and descended high hills. On he went, tired, dusty, lame, caring for nobody and nobody caring for him. He met with many hardships and resisted many opportunities of doing good; at first through ignoring his conscience, but after a time coming to be cold, selfish, and hard of heart.
“At last he came to the shores of a great sea. Here he stood still, in despair. What should he do? At last, stripping himself of everything, even the gold that he had been carrying in his pocket, he plunged into the waters and swam for his life. Cold, exhausted, hungry, naked, and penniless, he at length reached the opposite shore and continued his journey. Every step was now one of pain and strong effort, and when a little hillock obstructed his path, he wept like a child. Through summer and winter, seedtime and harvest, still he toiled on. At last, he reached the end of his journey.”
“And what did he find there, Papa?” cried Charles, whose interest had been waxing stronger and stronger as his father proceeded.
“What do you think he found?”
Charles’s opinion wavered between all manner of possible and impossible things. He thought of a race of giants; of men with only one eye, or men with six eyes, and the like. Helen, who had been lost in thought, jumped up, crying, “Why, he found his own house!”
“What! his own house? How could his house be on the other side of the world?” asked Charles.
“Why, don’t you see,” cried Helen, snatching up an apple, “if I set out from this dent and walk in a straight line, I come right back to the dent again?”
“Any fool might see that,” said Charles. “But what has this to do with the story? The man was not walking around the world but across it.”
“But, my boy, is the world a flat plane, or a sphere?”
“Why, it is a sphere. Ah! I see now! Of course, the man would come to the point he started from.” He looked discomfited, however. “Well,” said he, “what did they say to him when they saw him coming home?”
“His mother looked at him from the window, and when she saw the miserable state he had reduced himself to, she said, ‘We will get him to bed as soon as possible, poor fellow, for he seems to need rest sadly. And we won’t scold him for his folly. He has already had his punishment.’ But his wife said to him, ‘A pretty state you’re in! I wonder you have not been carried to Bedlam, where you belong! Whom do you suppose fed and clothed your children while you ran such a wild-goose chase over the world? Didn’t I tell you how it would end?”
“And that’s the last I ever heard of him,” said Mr. Whittier, bringing his story to so sudden a close, that both children cried out,
“Is that all? What became of the man? How did he feel?”
“I’ve told you all I know,” said their father.
“Well,” said Charles, “he was a fool, anyhow. He might have known he was a fool if he had stopped to think a moment. His wife gave it to him good, didn’t she? It was just good enough for him!”
“Oh, that was the part I liked least,” said Helen. “His wife might have known he would feel ashamed and sorry enough to need no scolding.”
“That is one of the morals of my story, but not the only one,” said her father.
“I hate morals, and I’m going to feed Carlo,” said Charles, laughing and hurrying off.
Helen suspected the story had some reference to her own heedless course during the few past months, but she had not time to say so, for her father, pointing to the clock, admonished her that it was time to go to bed. He kissed and blessed her with great tenderness as she bade him goodnight, and, half amused and half reproved, she retired to her room.
“Nonsense is wholesome sometimes,” said Mr. Whittier to his wife, half apologetically.
“Yes, indeed it is,” she answered.