Chapter 19 A Visit from Mrs. Prigott
Chapter 19
A Visit from Mrs. Prigott
“What are these little odd-shaped things?” Asked Charles one day, approaching the table where Lucy sat writing. She looked up and smiled.
“Little letters for the children,” she said.
“Two, four, six, eight, nine! But some of them must be too young to read.”
“They’re just as pleased as if they could,” said Lucy; and opening one of them, she showed him that it contained nothing but a stack of neatly painted paper babies and paper furniture to match. “The baby can understand such a letter as that,” she said.
“He’ll tear them all up and put the rest in his mouth and choke himself. It would be better to send him a hammer and nails.”
“I would if they’d go in a letter.”
“Well, what’s in the next biggest letter?” She opened it and showed him several pictures that she had drawn for Joseph. “He’ll throw them down the well.”
“Perhaps you’ll like this better then! She opened a third little sheet on which, with great care and patience, she had printed with her pen a miniature letter in rhyme. Charles shouted with laughter as he read it, and was about to seize the five remaining letters, but Lucy put her hand over them. “You can’t read those,” she said.
“Oh yes, I must,” he said, seizing them and running off.
Lucy smiled and went on with the letter she was writing, simply saying, “I know you won’t read them when you know I don’t want you to.”
“It’s no fun trying to tease you,” he said, throwing the letters down in front of her. “Now, if it had been Helen, she’d have screamed and run after me, and we would have had a regular time of it.”
“It puts me out of breath to run, and Miss Prigott says I shouldn’t.”
“And I suppose you never do! Oh, no! Never hurry upstairs? I hope Miss Prigott will remember you in her will.”
“What’s that about ‘Miss Prigott?’ chimed a little fine voice, and that lady came smiling in, most unexpectedly. Charles lost no time in retreating under the pretense of calling his mother, and Lucy rose to meet the little woman very cordially.
“It’s a long time since I’ve seen you,” she said. “My aunt said yesterday that you had quite forsaken us.”
“I’ve come to spend the day now, knowing you would be at home from school on Saturday. So you must just put away all this writing and sit down with me unless you think the old woman’s company will be tedious.”
Every girl knows the value of Saturday; few would consent to sacrifice one to a Miss Prigott. Lucy looked dismayed for a moment at the prospect, but would not let herself look so any longer.
“Can’t I give up one day?” she thought, as she began to lay aside her books and papers. Her heart was set on writing the letters and she had planned to do so much this day, and it was not easy for her to immediately change these plans. Her mind felt stiff and would not turn readily to new interests. But she ran—yes, she ran up to her room, found her sewing basket, and came smiling back, saying to herself, “It’s good to find out now and then how selfish I am.”
“Oh, give those to me,” said Miss Prigott. “I brought my thimble.”
“I don’t want to have you mend my stockings.”
“I’ll do it anyway, and you, meanwhile, are to sit down here and tell me all about your school. I hear they’re spoiling you and making you think you’re a genius.”
“I haven’t begun to think so yet, but I am afraid I will if I get beyond mending my own clothes.”
“Nonsense, my dear. Now, what are your studies?”
“French, for one.”
“What’s the use of that? Who do you ever meet that can’t speak English?”
“No one now, but I may. And these days, no one thinks of not reading French, at least.”
“Well, what next?”
“Latin.”
“And who talks Latin, pray?”
“No one; it’s a dead language. But I study it in the hope of helping my brothers in time.”
“Well, one tongue is as much as I can master. If yours is as troublesome as mine, I don’t wonder you want to give it a helping hand. I suppose you study Greek and Hebrew, too.”
“Not yet; but perhaps I will one of these days. Intellectual Philosophy comes next.”
“But don’t you study grammar?”
“Not English grammar. Mr. Jackson says that’s the last class to be taken, rather than the first—as at most schools.”
“I suppose, then, his students learn their ABCs after they’ve learned to read.”
“We have no students so young. Perhaps they would if we had,” said Lucy smiling.
“How do you expect to speak correctly, if you don’t study grammar?”
“By listening to those who speak good English, I suppose. And our compositions are corrected every week, and mistakes there are pointed out to us.”
“Everything goes backward nowadays!” sighed Miss Prigott. “I expect to see babies taught to fly before they can run. Though I hope I don’t live that long.”
“I think Aunt doesn’t know you’re here,” said Lucy. “I’ll go up to her room and see.”
“Have you told me all your studies?”
“No, I’ll tell the rest when I come back.”
“I’m sure you don’t touch a needle at your school.”
“Oh, no! We have only gentlemen teachers!’
Lucy returned in a few moments with other work and sat down again near Miss Prigott, who was getting a little deaf.
“Aunt will be down soon,” she said.
“What have you got there? Let me look at it how beautifully you sew!”
“I’m quite proud of my sewing,” she answered.
“Proud! That’s very wrong, my dear.”
“Well, I am. And of my bread, too. Because I hated doing both of those and when I sew well or make good bread or anything of the sort, I know it is a clear improvement on myself. So much wild land cultivated and made useful.”
Miss Prigott meditated on this speech, and turned it over and over in her mind, but did not understand it at all. Lucy was glad to see her aunt come in and took refuge behind the large piece of work from her basket.
“Do you still like your boarding place?” asked Mrs. Whittier, after welcoming her guest.
“Yes, but my life is very solitary. I’m thinking of buying a house on that account. To tell the truth, I came to consult you about it. I suppose you wonder how I have been so busy that I have no time to come see you. But my time has been fully occupied, I assure you. Now guess, if you can, what I’ve been doing. But I may as well just tell you. I’ve been building a house.”
Her hearers were as much surprised as she wished them to be, and she was so overcome by the shock she felt she had given them, that she was obliged to fan herself into breath again.
“Yes, I have built a house. All last summer, while you were idling in the country, my house was going up. By the first of May, it will be habitable. I selected every brick with my own hands. I found fault with every board and examined every nail. I lost seven pounds, by coming into town so often to remind the workmen that I was in a hurry, and to watch them, lest they squander away their time. They treated me very badly indeed, and once began to joke in my hearing that they hoped I had picked out my husband as carefully as I did my bricks and nails. I assure you I never went near them again.”
“I wonder we have not heard of your exploits,” said Mrs. Whittier, trying not to laugh.
“Ah, I know how to keep a secret! I’ve not lived fifty years for nothing. I contracted for the house under a false name.”
“And what was that?” asked Helen, who had entered in the middle of the conversation and had been pinching Lucy to make her laugh ever since.
“Mrs. Trogip, my dear.”
“That’s the very house Papa was describing to us a few weeks ago!” cried Helen.
“What did he think of it, my dear?”
“Oh, he said it was a fine house—to look at,’’ she added in a low voice, for she did not wish to inform poor Miss Prigott that he had pronounced it badly built.
“But, my dear Miss Prigott,” said Mrs. Whittier, “you surely don’t intend to occupy that large house by yourself.”
“We shall see,” said Miss Prigott mysteriously.
“I do believe she’s going to offer herself to somebody,” whispered Helen to Lucy.
“I’ve been half distracted with the way people have treated me,” continued Miss Prigott. “One man sent me a business card which stated that he could furnish wedding cake cheaper and better than any in the world. Another sent word that he could provide white gloves by the dozen. All those saucy clerks at Horton’s asked, whenever I ordered anything, ‘Shall I send the bill to Mr.?’ as if any Mr. in the world had the settling of my affairs!”
“But this looks really suspicious,” said Mrs. Whittier. “I certainly think it must be inquired into. Who can be the happy man?”
Miss Prigott was jubilant, but not one word further would she provide. Helen heard her father in the hall and rushed out laughing to tell him the news.
“Papa, can you believe Miss Prigott is going to be married?” she said, as well as she could between her outbursts of laughter.
“Nonsense!” was the brief response, as Mr. Whittier took off his coat and gloves.
“She is, Papa, she really is. And she’s built a house for him to live in. That very house you were telling us about!”
“I won’t believe it until I see the man and hear him admit it,” he replied.
When Helen returned to the parlor, she found Miss Prigott’s excitement subsiding sufficiently to enable her to go on with a description of her house, quite coherently. In addition to the usual rooms, there was a library well filled with books; all the works of Baxter, Owen, Bunyan, and other good men were to be there, and many others.
“The happy man must be a minister,” said Mrs. Whittier, willing to indulge Miss Prigott as long as she chose.
“You are as far off the mark as possible,” was the answer. “My dear Lucy, you will ruin your eyes over that fine stitching. If I had used my eyes in that way in my youth, where would they be at my age? Besides, I want you to keep your eyes in good order because I want you to help me choose some furniture.”
“But I know nothing whatsoever about furniture,” said Lucy in astonishment.
“Then it’s time you learn, my love,” said Miss Prigott sharply.
“She made a whole set of chairs and tables,” said Charles.
“Made what, did you say? Chairs and tables? Why, my dear Lucy, is there anything you don’t do? Did you not find it very hard work?”
Lucy explained that the furniture was made of paper and required little skill. She was glad to hear dinner announced, to escape the exclamations of amazement she saw shaping themselves on Miss Prigott’s lips. She found it so annoying to have every little thing she said or did, commented on, and praised. It made her feel foolish and ashamed. Yet she could have been proud, according to her own theory, for the pleasures she had prepared for the little boys at home. It had cost her both time and labor and was indeed a work of love, worthy to be classed with the “cup of cold water.”
As they sat at the dinner table, Mr. Whittier said to Miss Prigott, “I hope you didn’t lose any money when that foolish Savings Bank failed?”
“Not a penny!” she answered. “But many poor old women did.”
“I had a small bit there myself,” said Mr. Whittier. “Fortunately, not much. It was my boy’s, and I would gladly have lost a greater sum elsewhere.
“Ah! That was a fine boy!” said Miss Prigott. “Haven’t I heard you say his grandfather wished to educate him?”
“Yes. I intended for the amount he left him to pass to your little brother, Lucy. It just occurs to me that I had not transferred it to him.”
The presence of his wife’s foot on his under the table recalled Mr. Whittier’s thoughts. He looked embarrassed and began to say, in a confused way, that of course it made no difference. There was more money in the world than that promised Arthur, but it was too late. Lucy’s quick comprehension took in the whole matter at a glance. Some things in Arthur’s letters had puzzled her. He had hinted at some difficulties concerning his education, which she could not understand. Everything was clear now. Her uncle had forgotten to send her grandfather’s legacy to Arthur, and now it was all gone! While she had been perfectly showered with luxuries and was so happy at school, and so at ease about Arthur, he had been unable to pay his school bills or buy necessary books. What a year of embarrassments and disappointments it must have been for him and Mother! Her mind was able to seize only one point of relief; there was the watch Miss Prigott had given her. With that, she could provide for Arthur’s present needs and have something left for the future. She went to her room the moment dinner was over and quickly dressed to go out. Then, taking the watch, she quietly left the house and was driving down Broadway before she had collected her scattered thoughts.
“I am almost afraid!” she said to herself. “I may be going on a foolish or even wicked errand. Oh, may God direct me and keep me from doing wrong!”
But when she entered the brilliant establishment where the watch had been purchased, her courage failed. She lingered near the door. It was not too late to go back—but no—the image of Arthur, tall and slender, and not strong, came and stood by her side and gave her courage. She stepped forward and offered the watch for sale. She had hardly spoken when Dr. Thornton approached her looking surprised.
“May I ask the meaning of this?” he asked kindly, and in a low voice.
She hesitated. “Excuse me, I should not have asked,” he said, and was moving away, but she stopped him.
“It’s nothing wrong, I hope; nothing to be ashamed to have you know. But I could not explain it here. Only, please don’t think my uncle doesn’t provide me with all I need. I don’t want anything for myself. It’s for someone else.”
He stood by her side in silence, but with kindness still, and in a few minutes the precious money was in her hands. Yes, precious, for it would fly as on the wings of the wind to Arthur.
“If my uncle hears of this, it should be from me,” she said to Dr. Thornton, as they passed into the street, “and no other person has a right to know it.”
He smiled. “You may trust me,” he said; and so they parted. Lucy soon reached home. It was getting late, and as she entered, the bell was ringing for tea. She hastily laid aside her shawl and bonnet and joined the family. To her relief, she found they had not missed her or had thought she was in her room. But after Miss Prigott had left and she had time for reflection, she began to feel disturbed by a new question. Shouldn’t she go frankly to her uncle and tell him what she had done? But if she did that, wouldn’t he feel that she had recklessly chosen to hurt him? “There is a right and a wrong to this matter,” she thought. “Oh, if I only knew what I ought to do, I think I would do it, cost what it may.” She could hardly sleep in this doubtful state, and all the next day she felt perplexed. But eventually, it became clear that she owed it to her uncle to confess the whole transaction.
Her mind made up, she lost no time in taking him aside and laying before him the facts of the case. “Uncle, I have done something that I am not sure you will approve of. I have sold my watch.”
“To whom?”
“To Mr. Kent’s where it was bought, for a little less than the original price.”
“It’s just what I expected of you, Lucy,” he said. “And let me tell you, you have lost nothing by confessing to me that you have sold it. I saw you hurry off after dinner; and as it needed no magician to tell where you had gone, I followed you.”
“Are you unhappy with me, Uncle? Have I done wrong?”
“I am unhappy with myself for giving you a reason to sacrifice your watch, my dear. I will not say it was quite right for you to run off without consulting any of us and sell Miss Prigott’s gift. But I knew how you felt about it, and ought to have given you my advice unasked.”
“Dear Uncle, when I first showed it to you, I wanted to ask if I might exchange it for a less expensive one, but I said all I dared. And I was writing home yesterday morning; and that made me think, as it always does, how I would love to take them all by surprise by sending them something worth a good deal more than pictures and paper babies.”
Her uncle smiled and asked, “How old is Arthur now?”
“He’s thirteen; there is only a year between him and John.”
“Has he begun to ready for college?”
“Yes, sir; he recites to our minister a part of the time, but he goes to school besides.”
“Well, I think I shall remember my promises better in the future. The fact is, I had got this boy so mixed up in my mind with my own little Arthur, that I was thinking it would be years before he’d need that money; and meanwhile, it could accumulate. And now, to make all fair and square between us, you must make me one promise. If you make and keep it, I’ll overlook your hair-brained dash down Broadway this afternoon.” Lucy smiled and promised.
“Understand then, that when I get ready—I am not now, but I will be one day—I’m going to give you a gift you won’t refuse, give away, or sell.”
“I thought I wouldn’t press her about that watch,” he said afterward to Mrs. Whittier. “The poor child behaved very well about it overall, and I like her all the more, that she’s not quite perfect yet. It was a pretty bold step to take. But the watch was her own; she had a right to do what she pleased with it. And if Miss Prigott ever finds it out, I’ll lay a flattering balm to her soul that will make it young again. The truth is, it was a very unsuitable present. Such a showy and expensive gift for a young girl fresh from the country was ridiculous.”
“Do you think Lucy will be willing to spend the summer with us?” asked Mrs. Whittier.
“I don’t know. Let’s see; it’s a year and a few months since she came. No, she ought to spend summer vacation at home. She won’t be happy without seeing them all, nor they without seeing her.”
“If she goes home, I’m afraid she’ll never return.”
“Oh, there’s no danger of that. Such a passion for books I’ve never seen before. Mr. Jackson says he never had such a student; she is progressing very rapidly.”
“But if she goes home, she’ll see how much she’s needed there, and I know just how it will be. She’ll sit down and sew from morning until night, or drudge about the house. They’ll tell her every little trouble they’ve had during her absence, and in the end, she’ll return, if she comes at all, as entirely unfit for school as she was when she came here.”
“I wish she was our child!” said Mr. Whittier.
“So do I! It does seem sad to think of such a girl as she is, being consigned to a dull life in the country.”
“She’s going to make a beautiful woman.”
“Better than that! A good and an accomplished one.”