Chapter 20 Every Life has its Romance
Chapter 20
Every Life has its Romance
With a beating heart, Lucy folded and sealed the letter containing the proceeds from her watch. She longed to fly home and be the bearer of the relief that she knew the unconscious sheet of paper could carry, but not appreciate. Helen met her—half running, half dancing—with it in her hand, and was not much surprised to feel herself caught and kissed, after a glance at the radiant face that fairly shone with happiness.
“Always smiling,” she said. “I do think you are the happiest creature I ever saw.” Lucy always liked to be called a happy person, and another kiss told Helen so.
“It’s time for school,” said Helen. “Are you ready?”
“Just let me give this letter to Uncle first.”
“He’s gone. He went some time ago.”
“Oh no! Then my letter won’t go by today’s mail! I wish I had mailed it on Saturday night!”
“Never mind. It will go just as safely tomorrow. Come on, it’s high time for school.”
Lucy was greatly disappointed. She almost felt like crying, and a wild fancy shot across her mind about setting off toward home on foot. The loving heart could certainly reach home sooner than the mail, if alas! it didn’t have to travel in that slow, uncertain coach, a frail body! Horses could go faster than that, and so could a steam engine.
“Mama’s calling you, Lucy,” said Helen.
“Your uncle did not forget your letter, my dear,” said Mrs. Whittier. “He is going to send for it in a few hours. In the meantime, I’m going to write to your mother myself. Shall I tell you what it’s about?”
“We’ll be late to school, Mama,” said Helen. “Lucy can hear about it just as well when we get home. Can’t you, Lucy?”
“If you don't mind, Aunt,” said Lucy, feeling almost carried off by Helen, who besides her dread of being late, really wanted the letters to be gone. At the dinner table, Lucy’s curiosity was satisfied by her aunt.
“We have been thinking, dear Lucy, that you would want to spend the summer vacation at home, and naturally, you would. But your uncle and I talked it over last night, and again this morning; and we have decided to write to your mother, and ask her to come here and visit, and then allow us to take you with us as we did last summer. The sea air is so good for you, and you have been studying so hard!”
Lucy reflected a little before she replied. She felt that it would do her mother a world of good to leave home and all its cares for once, and have a change of scenery and climate. But would she consent to do it? If so, her own duty was clear. Otherwise, it did seem very hard to give up seeing them all for another year.
“Dear Aunt, how very kind you are! You think of everything,” she said. “I wish Mother could come here. I’m sure you would like her. And she would enjoy being here. But it is so many, many years since she left home, even for one day! Not since I can remember.”
“You are so old,” said her uncle.
“I was afraid to let you hear Mama’s plan,” said Helen. “I knew you wanted to see Arthur and Hatty, and all of them, so much.”
Lucy didn’t answer. She had formed no definite plan about going home but rather had taken it for granted that she was to go.
“Let’s drop the subject for now,” said her aunt, observing her. “There are still two months before vacation, and it’s not necessary to decide on anything today.”
Lucy found the subject not easily dropped. It clung to her wherever she went, no matter how she busied herself, especially on Saturdays and Sundays. On those days, homesickness attacks, even though there is a partial respite during the other five. She was, therefore, less sorry to find herself dragged by Miss Prigott from shop to shop to help her examine carpets, tables, chairs, and even pictures. In this way, one of her hard days was softened every week, since there was comfort in giving pleasure, irksome as the shopping was.
“How worn out you look!” cried Helen, as one day Lucy returned from such an expedition. “I don’t know how you can let yourself be treated like this! This is the fourth Saturday you have been under her thumb.”
“She’s been very kind to me,” said Lucy, “and I am glad to have the opportunity to please her. You know your mother advised me to go. But I know no more about carpets and curtains than a kitten. Today, though, I’ve seen beautiful things: pictures and writing desks, and the funniest little nesting tables; and the moment I said I liked what I saw, Miss Prigott bought it, until I hardly dared open my mouth. She says one room, in particular, is to be furnished exactly to my taste. She wants you to go with me next Saturday to see the house.”
“So she’s finally going to let us see it, is she? But I can’t go on Saturday. Mary Anna is coming to spend the day and she always comes early.”
“Couldn’t she go with us? I’m sure she would like to go. Miss Prigott is to call for us in her carriage. I forgot to tell you she bought a new carriage and horses, and she wants your father to see them.”
“Well when I get married, I hope I won’t be left to build a house and buy horses and carriages for my husband.”
“Oh, I don’t think she’s going to be married.”
“Of course, she doesn’t expect to live all alone in that big house. If I go on Saturday, I plan to ask her and make her tell me. Dear me! Who would want to live with her? Would you?’’
“I’ll tell you when she asks me,” said Lucy laughing.
“It’s been almost five weeks since I heard from home,” she said after a pause.
“I thought you received letters soon after you and Mama wrote last.”
“Yes, I did that week. It’s four, then, since I heard. But I thought Mother would write as soon as she received Aunt’s letter, to say nothing of mine. I’m starting to be afraid someone is sick.”
“No news is good news,” said Helen. “Of course they would write if anything was the matter. But here comes Papa with his hands full of letters.”
“Two for Lucy!” he cried, coming cheerily in. “And one for Helen and one for you, my dear,” he added, as Mrs. Whittier entered. “I’ve taken the liberty of opening and reading it.”
“From your sister, I suppose,” said Mrs. Whittier; “and as you’ve read it, you may tell me what it says, since dinner is ready.”
“There’s too much to mention,” he answered. “They have had sickness in the house or she would have written sooner.”
“One of my letters is three weeks old,” said Lucy. “It was written the very day they received mine. They received it,” she added in a low voice to her uncle, whose face asked the question.
“Who’s been sick, dear?” asked her aunt.
“Three of the children had the measles severely, Arthur says. The three youngest were all sick together. Poor mother must be all worn out.’’
“She says she cannot possibly decide at present whether she can come to see us. But she is quite willing to let you remain, in any case.”
“I didn’t want her to be willing!” thought Lucy. But after dinner when she had time to read Arthur’s letter, its cheerful, relieved tone revived her spirits. The eagerness with which he thanked her for the money she had sent showed her how much he had been embarrassed in needing it. He also said that Uncle had written to their father about John and promised to find something for him to do in the fall, which would be more profitable than going to sea. He told her, too, what progress he had made in his studies, and how happy and grateful he was. “Nobody in the world has so much to be thankful for!” he said, as he closed his letter. Lucy thought she could say the same. And the next week passed quickly, for happiness makes time travel fast, as everybody knows. On the following Saturday, Miss Prigott made her appearance, carriage and all; and Helen, Lucy, and Mary Anna were driven to see the house. They went in fine spirits, and everything in the house and about it was “beautiful,” or “lovely,” or “delightful.”
“Now, you’ll see the rooms Lucy furnished,” said Miss Prigott, throwing open the doors of two previously closed rooms. One of these was a bedroom, simply furnished, but in perfect taste; and adjoining it was another, fitted as a little library. Books and pictures and a tempting rosewood desk made this room attractive.
“Why, here is the Madonna I liked so much!” said Helen. “I saw one at Mr. Ripley’s one day last fall. And oh, what a delightful desk! Places for everything! Room for loads of papers! And Mary Anna, look at these prints! But sit in this chair first. Isn’t it nice? Oh, Miss Prigott! Are these the rooms you’ll be living in?”
“No, my dear; they would not suit an old woman. They are for a young lady.”
“What young lady did you say?” asked Helen playfully.
“Oh, that is a secret. I have not told her name. But these two rooms and their contents are for her. She enjoys studying, and I thought it would be pleasant for her to have a place where she could always be peaceful. Then I decided to have pretty things about her to make her cheerful. And she likes pictures, so I ordered some. Outlandish things they are, women holding babies on their laps and all that, but people nowadays seem to like them.”
“Why, those are Madonnas,” said Helen. “But look at Lucy! There she sits, as comfortable as you please, reading as if her life depended on it. Lucy!” Lucy looked up from her book and smiled.
“This is a charming room!” she said.
“I hoped you would like it!” said Miss Prigott rubbing her hands. “And how do you think the carpet looks, now that it’s in?
“Very nice, indeed.”
“And you think the room is pleasant? I am very glad,” Miss Prigott said again. “And now you may go. By next Saturday I hope to be quite settled and you must all come and spend the day. Bring your work, and do just as you would at home.”
As they entered the carriage, Miss Prigott detained Lucy a moment, to give her a slip of paper. “You’ll find the name of that young lady who is to be my daughter on this paper,” she said. “Don’t let those girls see it just yet.” They drove off and Mary Anna and Helen could talk of nothing but those mysterious rooms.
“She’s going to marry a widower with a literary daughter, I’m almost sure,” said Helen.
“Mr. Stanley is a widower, and his daughter is a regular bookworm,” said Mary Anna.
“Oh, but she is almost as old as Miss Prigott. She said a young lady.”
Meanwhile, Lucy glanced privately at the paper in her hand and read, to her astonishment, the words, “Sweet Lucy Grant.” Her hand closed over it. She felt, for a moment, as if Miss Prigott’s grasp had clasped and crumpled her.
“Why, Lucy, are you faint?” cried Helen, “you look so pale!”
“No, I’m not faint, and I don’t feel pale.”
“You don’t now, but you certainly did a moment ago.”
“Did you ever hear anyone say that Miss Prigott had been insane?” asked Mary Anna.
“No, but everybody says she’s odd, as odd as she can be. She is certainly to be pitied, for I’m sure she can’t help it.”
“My mother knows all about her,” continued Mary Anna, “and I’ll tell you what she told me; but you must not repeat it. Lucy, wasn’t your father’s name Robert?”
“Yes, but what has that to do with Miss Prigott?’
“Everything, as you will see. When she was young, she knew him very well, and as she was so rich, some young men paid her great attention, even though she was not very attractive. Your father was studying theology at that time, and she took a fancy to him and began to send him presents anonymously. There was no end to the books and clothes she gave him. At first, he would not use them, not knowing where they came from; but some of his friends finally persuaded him that this was wrong; so eventually he appeared out in some of the things, and Miss Prigott was in ecstasies. It went on like this for a year or two, but by that time she was getting tired of keeping her secret, and confided it to a friend. This friend told somebody else, and soon after it reached your father’s ears. He immediately went to Miss Prigott and insisted on knowing whether these reports were true. It was said she offered herself to him on the spot. In any case, he came from the meeting looking as pale as possible, and she never was the same from that day. She always said he behaved honorably through the whole affair, and that she had no one but herself to blame.
“Soon after, she had a fever and kept calling for him all the time. She was an orphan, and your father felt so bad for her, and there was so much talk about the incident that his health really suffered. He wanted to send back the books and other things, but he was advised not to, she was in such a sad, feeble state of mind.”
Lucy remembered that her mother had said in one of her letters, “We wish you to do everything you can to be kind to Miss Prigott. We have special reasons for this, don’t forget it.” Mary Anna’s story threw light on many points in Miss Prigott’s character, as well as on this remark, but it made the bit of paper she held in her hand burn like fire into her heart.
“I won’t respect poor Miss Prigott any less for what you’ve told me,” she said. “But I’m not sure I should have let you tell it.”
“Almost everybody knows she has had a ‘disappointment,’” said Helen. “But I think it’s quite interesting to know all about it.”
“Don’t you wish your father had married her?” asked Mary Anna. “You would have been as rich as Jews by this time.”
Helen laughed, but Lucy felt pained. It seemed to her a most likable weakness in Miss Prigott to fall in love with her father. She was glad when they reached home, where she could reflect on all the incidents of the morning, and as soon as she had the opportunity, she went to her aunt.
“The girls have been giving me an account of their morning adventures,” said Mrs. Whittier. “Why didn’t you come with them?”
“I wanted to see you alone, Aunt. Did they tell you about those rooms she has fitted up so nicely?
“Yes, and that they are for some unknown young lady.”
“Just as we were leaving, she put this paper in my hand, saying I would find the name of the young lady on it.” Her aunt took the paper, and laughed heartily as she read the words, “Sweet Lucy Grant.”
“What nonsense!” she said. “It’s not possible she thinks you are going there to live with her! I never heard of such a thing!”
“But she furnished those rooms exactly to my taste! Everything there I had selected, not dreaming what was coming, and she seems to be so sure I am coming. Oh, Aunt! It makes me wish I’d never left home!”
“Why, how flushed and excited you are, my dear child! Do you think we would allow you to go and bury yourself alive in a tomb because somebody had been silly enough to build one for the purpose? And I don’t really believe Miss Prigott expects you to do it. She only wanted to see what you would say.”
Lucy half-believed her aunt for the time and went away relieved. But in the evening there came a long letter from Miss Prigott, in which, most pathetically, she described her long, lonely life, told Lucy how happy she could now make its closing years, and called on her to come and begin this work of mercy.
Poor Lucy cried herself sick over it. A romantic notion that she ought to sacrifice herself to Miss Prigott, who had suffered so much, whose life had been so cheerless and lonely, nearly carried off her judgment. It was fortunate for her that in this emergency she was not left to act for herself.
Her uncle went to Miss Prigott at once and settled the question. However, he suggested that Lucy spend a few weeks in the special rooms prepared for her, call them hers, and from time to time as years passed, use them as such. With many tears, Miss Prigott yielded, declaring that from the beginning she had wished, rather than expected, to have Lucy for herself. Lucy went to her early on the following Monday and devoted every leisure moment to her comfort and pleasure. They were some of the happiest weeks she had ever spent.