Chapter 22 Clouds Dispersing
Chapter 22
Clouds Dispersing
It was decided, after not a little discussion, that Lucy would not return home until the week of Rebecca’s marriage. Lucy had no say in this plan. She would gladly have returned home at once to help Rebecca, as well as see her before her departure. But her uncle would not listen to a word on the subject. The more sure he felt that, once home, she would not return, the more he was resolved to give her every possible pleasure before parting with her. Hasty preparations were therefore made to leave on a journey in August as soon as school ended. At Lucy’s suggestion, Miss Prigott was invited to join them. Mrs. Lee, who was welcome everywhere, invited herself as soon as she heard what was going on. Everybody was busy—Mrs. Whittier planning for all the rest, Helen and Lucy with the last pressing labors of school, Miss Prigott flying around and getting in the way of everyone, and Mrs. Lee in conferences with Dr. Thornton, letter writing abroad, and all manner of final arrangements.
When the school closed and Lucy went to say goodbye to Mr. Jackson, he expressed both astonishment and displeasure at the idea of her not returning. He would not bid her goodbye; said he would write to her father and visit her uncle, and all sorts of extravagant things in her praise. None of this had much effect on her, except to elicit her gratitude.
“And now, Miss Lucy,” said her uncle, as she came to the table, quite worn and tired after all the goodbyes at school, “how about taking the trouble to ask where we’re all going.”
“I didn’t know that I had not asked, Uncle,” she answered. “I have had so much to think of lately that I have not had room in my head for journeys.”
“And I suppose you care not a whit to know which way we are to go—north, east, south, or west?”
“Don’t tease her, Papa; please don’t!” pleaded Helen. “Let me tell her, may I? Oh, Lucy, you’ll be so happy! We’re going to Honeydale to spend all the rest of the summer, and nearly the whole month of October. Only five miles from where you live! All of us, and Miss Prigott, and Mrs. Lee, and all her children! Papa has rented rooms for us, or rather he wrote to your father to do so, and he has. Isn’t it wonderful?”
“Now they’ll see my mother!” was Lucy’s first thought, “and Arthur! and all of them!”
“I knew you would be delighted!” continued Helen. “Papa would not let me tell you a moment sooner. And we can all go to Rebecca’s wedding! And Mama has so many things for her!”
Helen ran on unfolding all the plans as fast as a nimble tongue could carry her, and Lucy listened and applauded while her uncle and aunt sat still and enjoyed her delight.
“Papa is going to send the carriage, so we’ll be able to come to see you very often, and have you come to see us. And if he and Mama find Honeydale a pleasant place, perhaps they’ll go there every summer!”
These exciting plans were not, however, to be realized. Mrs. Whittier was suddenly taken with illness, which though not severe, rendered traveling unsafe. Helen would not be persuaded to leave her, and none of the party wished to do so. At almost the last moment it was arranged that Lucy would go home alone and the visit to Honeydale would be postponed to another season. Helen’s anxiety about her mother sustained her through the goodbyes; but when Lucy bade farewell to her uncle, aunt, and cousins, Mrs. Lee and Miss Prigott, it seemed to them all that the ties of many years were broken. Not often is it like this in this world, yet there are cases where the affections seize upon a beloved object, and straightway it begins to seem that there never could have been a time when it was less dear, or the heart free from a sense of emptiness without it.
Mrs. Whittier’s illness proved somewhat obstinate, and all thought of going to the country this year was given up unless a short trip to a quiet spot near home would be found desirable. She was confined to the sofa and needed cheerful company, such as Helen usually afforded. But she did not afford it now. She felt as if half of herself had gone with Lucy, and the hopeful anticipation of her return in the fall began to cloud over. Her mother gave her little encouragement. Helen saw that however she desired Lucy’s return, she did not really expect it. Indeed, there was only one point on which hope rested; it was that already seized by Helen’s imagination: “Mothers are never selfish.”
However true this may be, there is a limit to the strength of the most devoted mother; and the very qualities that rendered Lucy attractive abroad made her doubly precious at home. But this was Helen’s first real trial. She had never known anything like it in her life. She went moping about, looking very dreary and desolate, refusing to be comforted. Her mother, therefore, thought it best to revive the favorite project so long deferred: packing up a large box of clothes for the relief and pleasure of Lucy’s family.
It had the desired effect of making Helen forget herself and give up sighing and weeping, while it opened a channel into which her busy, loving heart could run and find peace. There was no end to the pleasure they all gained from this project. Even Charles enjoyed their planning and sat often with them in their councils. He helped select items that would be of use to his cousins, for he had been with them and knew something of their real needs. How unexceptional to the uninitiated ear would a list of the contents of this box appear! How suggestive, to the wife and children of the Home Missionary, of deprivations, long endured and patiently submitted to!
“Save room for me to tuck in something,” said Mr. Whittier, just as the last stout jacket had been coaxed into an incredibly small space.
“Oh, Papa! You’re too late!” cried Helen, triumphantly. “You can’t even crowd in your love! Mama and I have filled up every spare nook and corner with ours. Oh, I do wish you had come sooner to see all those nice jackets, from five years old upward! And those dear little plaid gowns for the baby! And those comical little shirts, all sizes. I’ve never seen anything so funny! Mama and I laughed until we cried, thinking how the children would look, running around trying on the things, and dear Lucy helping them all, and never dreaming what there is for her, way down at the bottom of the box!”
“And what is that?” he asked, drawing Helen down to a seat beside him.
“Why, one of those little clocks, Papa, that will be almost as useful as a watch. I don’t know what you call it exactly, but it doesn’t run by weights at all, and you can carry it in your traveling bag, if necessary. Mama thought of it, and we all think she will like it very much, as well as many other little things we have gathered among us.”
“And so you won’t let me send my gift in your box?” said her father.
“Indeed, Papa, there is no room for anything more. But, let me see; if it’s very small—” Her father held up a bit of paper, old and yellow, and uninviting to Helen’s mind. “Oh, is that all?” she said. “Dear me! I thought you had been getting some splendid present!”
“Lucy does not want splendid things, my dear, and I assure you this little bit of paper is of some value.” Her mother came and looked over his shoulder and smiled.
“I knew you could not help doing that,” she said. “I’m very glad!” Helen looked puzzled. “It’s an old note of your uncle’s, my dear,” explained her father, “and I intend to give it to Lucy as a gift.”
“But what will she do with it, Papa?”
“Throw it into the fire, I hope,” he answered, enjoying Helen’s bewildered air.
“My dear,” said her mother, “that little bit of paper kept your father and uncle apart many years, the trouble began when they were young men, and before your father was a Christian. Uncle Robert was unfortunate and never could pay what he owed us, and this debt has harassed him for years. Now you see, when this note is destroyed there will be no debt, and poor Lucy, who has carried this burden in her youth, will be forever at ease. It’s but a trifle to your father; he can now afford to do it. As for sending it in the box—that is just one of his jokes.” Helen threw her arms around her father’s neck and told him he was the very best man in the world, and whether he believed it or not, he loved dearly to hear his child say so.
Not many days after the box was sent, Mary Anna Milman came to visit Helen. “Now, do tell me,” she said, as soon as she had seated herself, “about poor Lucy. I have so longed to hear all about it!”
“About what? “ asked Helen, “her going home?”
“Yes. What could have induced her to leave you, and school, and all her comforts and pleasures here, to go home and take care of babies? It is ridiculous! Everyone says so!”
“Was it ridiculous to love her Mother?” asked Helen.
“Oh! Of course not! But just as if someone could not have been gotten—some poor person, good for nothing else—to go and take care of those children!”
“Oh, Mary Anna! Some good-for-nothing person to take care of dear little children! To teach them, and—”
“Don’t they have a mother? I should think a mother would suffice as a teacher, and anybody can wash children and put them to bed, I suppose.”
“I don’t know,” said Helen, thoughtfully. “I’ve heard Lucy often speak of her mother’s poor health preventing her teaching. And she says a mother with such a family needs a daughter to lean on, to sympathize with her. She used to say no one could be more useful than a truly affectionate daughter.”
“Well! She was a strange girl, to leave such a home as this!”
“Papa says he wishes there were more such girls in the world,” said Helen.
“Your father said that! Well, I thought he wished above everything to keep Lucy here!”
“Yes, he did indeed wish to keep her, and so did we all. We loved her as if she had always been one of us. But we all feel that she did right in going, and if she decides not to return, she will decide from a clear conviction of duty.”
“Well!” said Mary Anna, sighing, “I’m sorry she has gone. I really did think I would catch some of her cheerful ways of looking at things if I saw more of her. Seeing her always so serene, so unruffled, made me discontented with myself. I don’t know how it is, but I am always agitated and excited. You and Lucy always seem so happy!”
“Oh, don’t class me with Lucy!” cried Helen. “I don’t know any young person who deserves to be mentioned on the same day! I do think she’s the most faultless person I ever met! Mama thinks the same. She says Lucy has a peculiar charm and attraction about her—one that can’t be described—but which I’m sure I felt from the start. When I was with her, I seemed to be with almost an angel. There was something so pure and even heavenly in her manner!”
“Heavenly! Oh, Helen!”
“Yes, heavenly!” repeated Helen. “It was the result of the prayerful life she led. She prayed all the time, I do believe.”
“And yet she always seemed so cheerful!” said Mary Anna.
“Why, that was the secret of her cheerfulness. I think she used to feel when anything interrupted or delayed her times of devotion—only to a more intense degree—just as we feel when we long for time with a beloved earthly friend. She said once that she had always a ‘consciousness of God.’” Mary Anna’s eyes filled with tears.
“I don’t even so much as know what that means!” she said.
“It can be learned by every Christian,” said Helen, very gently and timidly, for she felt that she was talking of mysteries into which many a saint has for years struggled vainly to look.
“It seems like presumption for me to think of such things,” said Mary Anna.
“I said that to Lucy myself,” replied Helen; “and she said it was a kind of presumption to which God called all His children. But I didn’t understand what she meant at first. Afterward, I began to see that I had been trying to be holy, not entirely in my own strength, but still wanting to have that come in and take its share in the work. Then I saw that I must renounce that, and let God do it all. After this, as I reflected more and more on the grace and strength in Him, I saw that He had enough even for me and that He was willing to give it to me. So it no longer seemed like presumption for a Christian, even a poor, weak Christian, to strive and long after holiness. It seemed like faith.” Mary Anna only sighed and looked perplexed.
“Oh, it’s just as plain as day!” said Helen. “Lucy used to make it seem so clear to me, and I wish she were here now. But, Mary Anna! God will teach you Himself! I don’t know anything. I keep going to Him and telling Him so, and then He teaches me. When I first became a Christian, if I found myself sinning, I always said to myself, ‘Now, I know I’m not a Christian!’ and so I would sit crying and lamenting, and never had time to go forward. After Lucy came, I learned not to do that. When I fall, instead of giving up, crying, and wasting my time and strength in complaints, I just tell God how sorry I am, begging Him to forgive me, and get right up and go on. Lucy told me to do so, and oh, how many times I have thanked her for it!”
Mary Anna listened to this simple instruction and held it fast. She went home, already cheered and encouraged. A path shone before her now in which, “looking unto Jesus,” she longed to walk. She had gone round and round in an endless circle of sins and sorrows, making no progress, and expecting no peace. To get to heaven at last, she hardly knew how, was her aim. But to go there now, with Christ all along the way! This was to begin to live! Truly, the young Christian in that far-off, obscure home, had not, for Mary Anna, lived in vain! Not in vain had she made that almost “angel’s visit,” which to herself had ended in disappointment and pain, but to more than one person was as the rising of the sun on a long-clouded wintry day!