Chapter 27 A New Home
Chapter 27
A New Home
The arrangements made by Lucy’s family and friends for the previous summer were now executed. The whole group came to Honeydale, which was in a pleasant mountainous region, and very they soon had established themselves so enjoyably there that they planned to return every summer. Lucy finally had the joy of seeing her mother and aunt meet, and was delighted to find they liked each other. It was also delightful to witness the renewal of the school friendship; to hear Mrs. Lee call her mother Sarah, and hear her mother address Mrs. Lee as “Hatty” as if many years had not passed since their last meeting.
“You must see your namesake,” said Mrs. Grant after the first greeting, drawing Hatty toward Mrs. Lee. This was a pleasant surprise to Mrs. Lee, who needed no proof that she had been beloved and remembered.
“I wish my brother had known this,” she said, “when he was so unfortunate as to injure one of your boys. It would have made him feel that he knew you.” Mrs. Lee was not aware that she was referring to the dear boy they all were mourning, but their silence suggested it to her. She hurried to change the subject. Seeing her friends so often during this summer, was beneficial to Mrs. Grant. Their company provided the gentle stimulus she needed and Lucy was delighted to see her reanimated.
Helen was perfectly contented if she could just be near Lucy. Little by little she settled down among them as one of the family. Hatty charmed her; such good boys she never had seen; as for the bread and butter, there never was anything like it in the world.
“I see there’s no use trying to take you away,” she said one day to Lucy. “They can’t get along without you. But if you’ll let me, I’ll come every summer. I’ll read to you and improve your mind, while you make bread and butter, and all sorts of good things to improve my color. And we’ll have delightful times together!” So she followed Lucy one whole day with a book in her hand. But at night she said they must invent a new plan. The children had each asked a hundred questions that had to be answered a hundred times, and the pot had boiled over twice and put the fire out. Lucy got terribly tired, with mind and body being worked at the same time.
Then Helen thought she would help with the work, so she insisted on dressing one of the children, but it took so long she drove the boy to a state of desperation. He then told his brother in confidence, that if people were going to take a year tying his shoes, he guessed he would have to learn to do it himself. He then asked him how he would feel if a girl buttoned up one of her long ringlets in his jacket so that they were fastened together like a yoke of oxen.
Rebecca, however, was at home. She smoothed away some of the difficulties and freed up time for Lucy to devote to Helen. So the summer passed to the satisfaction of all, and when Mrs. Whittier and Mrs. Lee departed, they fully expected that the following summer would reunite the circle.
But the transient flash of apparent health that had carried Mrs. Grant through the summer left with them. Her strength sank at once. She became helpless as a child and needed constant attention day and night. Rebecca was called home by her husband, who was tired of living alone; and the four little boys went with her, at her urgent request. Lucy and Hatty needed to have this relief, for their cares and anxieties were now very great. It was a long, hard, sorrowful winter. Only the smiles of the patient sufferer enlivened it. Seeing her constant pain, they could not smile; they could only try to imitate her patience. It was on a quiet spring morning that the struggle ceased, and the face that had reflected the mortal agony for those weary months shone with the beauty of undisturbed rest. The tranquil, kind expression, put aside for a season only in the conflict with death, came back and was sealed on the brow. They had not seen her look so like herself during the whole weary winter as now when death restored what sickness had taken away. Whom that looked on that face, could doubt that “all was well?” Above all, whom that had known the patient, cheerful, Christian life, could doubt it?
The mourning household went to lay her down by the side of Arthur. They thought they knew what sorrow meant when they saw the earth cover him out of their sight. But it had a deeper meaning now, “for in all the world they could find but one mother.”
Once more the old routine of domestic labor began. The little motherless boys clung now to Lucy; to her, they ran with their childish troubles; in her lap, they hid their heads and cried, and wished Mother would come back. And while her tears fell on the bowed heads, she still had a smile for them, so that home would not seem too dark and gloomy. The cheering word for her father was not lacking, nor was the loving one for Hatty.
Yet in all her life she had never known an affliction like this. Except as sin could bear more bitter fruit, she was now enduring the severest form of affliction. No earthly object had yet come between herself and her mother, and who has ever lost more than what he held dearest? It was well said by an already bereaved mother when informed of the sudden death of her only remaining child, “I see God means to have my whole heart, and He shall!” And so said Lucy now. From that hour when her mother was laid in the grave, God had her whole heart. She devoted herself, if possible, more entirely to the little flock remaining.
The path of duty is comparatively easy once it is made clear. There had been some conflicts in Lucy’s mind as to hers. Mr. Jackson had twice written during her mother’s illness, urging her return. He proposed that she pursue her studies at his school for another year, and thus become qualified to take a prominent position as a teacher there. She had felt that should her mother recover, it might be best for her to do this. She could then, perhaps, provide the education Hatty needed, and much could be done for the boys. But there was no question as to her proper course now. She began at once to give herself to her family in love and labor, as to her life work.
The summer months brought her friends again to Honeydale. They saw that she had planted herself in this country home and that the best years of her youth must pass toiling away at household labor; in the endless care of those restless boys; and sacrificing all of her desires. They suggested ways out of this life, devised plans among themselves, attempted to excite her father’s ambition for her, and then his fears concerning her. But Lucy had decided for herself, and while she thanked her friends, she would not allow them to move her. In vain, they represented her choice as unworthy of so noble, so refined a nature, fitted for the pleasures and the duties of a wider sphere. Lucy was satisfied with being unknown, with the “trivial round, the common task,” with the sweet rewards of family affection, and the approval of a conscience at peace with God. What would be the worth of the highest honors of this world without these?
Lucy’s busy hands found no idle time. Hatty patiently shared all her labors, but Lucy wanted to give her such an entire change of scene and rest as she had enjoyed herself. She did not hesitate to propose to her aunt to take Hatty home with her, and her aunt was eager to gratify her slightest wish. “I longed to suggest it myself,” was her aunt’s reply, “but feared it would leave you too lonely, and with too much work on your hands.”
“It will do me more good to know that she is with you and Helen than I can possibly describe,” said Lucy.
Hatty was not willing to go at first. She knew better than any other member of the family except Lucy, just what there was to do. But Lucy was firm. She had resolved that this should happen, and her strong will had great power in it. Two years ago, on her return, she hated the thought of exposing Hatty to temptations she was then unprepared for. But now the shield of sorrow was about the young heart. She felt that with God’s grace, it could protect her amid dangers.
Hatty went. John had returned to Mr. Haskins after his mother’s death. There were now left, for Lucy’s love and care, four boys from seven to thirteen. The baby, Willy, remained with Rebecca, who could not be induced to give him up. Of these four, Tom was the eldest. He was a noble young fellow, often getting into trouble, but always truthful, affectionate, and full of remorse after doing wrong. Lucy now gave Arthur’s little room to him. It had been unoccupied up until now. The many books that Arthur had loved were untouched and the seat in the corner was long left vacant. Tom was not equal to Arthur intellectually. He was small and fully aware of his inferiority in that respect. When his mother died, he thought he never would smile again. He wished he could die too, and have a little grave by her side, as Arthur had. He used to go and lie among the tall grass by her grave, and think how short and narrow a strip it would take for him, and if he were a good boy, how peacefully he would sleep there.
But little by little Lucy won his confidence. He began to honor and love her, and tell her of his troubles at school, and how the boys laughed at him and called him “Tom Thumb.” Lucy had intended to keep him at school a few years, and then, if he seemed ready, send him to college. She hoped to be able to prepare him for it herself by the time he left the school he attended now, which was a very ordinary kind. But his embarrassment over his little stature, now revealed, made her change this plan. She took him out of school, made him swim and exercise, work on the farm, and amuse himself to his heart’s content. He had never cared for books. He always wanted to play, but he had never had his fill of that, and lately, he had moped about a lot. The result of Lucy’s experiment proved its wisdom. Tom gained health and strength and appetite; and years afterward, when he was a man, and six feet tall, he used to tell Lucy that she had made him.
Two years from the time he was taken from school, he began suddenly to grow tall. He had already become strong. At the same time, he returned vigorously to his studies and gained in a year what he had lost in the two. Lucy worked hard to keep ahead of him. She succeeded and had the satisfaction of preparing him for college.
“Father,” she said one evening when he sat looking more than usually sad, “can you afford to send one of the boys to college?”
“Which one?” he asked languidly, “the baby?”
Lucy laughed. “Tom is all ready,” she said. “May he go?” The languid air gave way before this unexpected news.
“Lucy has prepared me for college!” said Tom triumphantly. “All by herself! Can I go, Father?”
“Yes, indeed, and Lucy too, if she will!” said her father, laying his hand on her head. “Dear child! What would I do without you?”
“Can you really afford to let me go, Father?’ asked Tom again.
“Yes, easily. And tomorrow, if you want.” Tom grabbed up Joseph, and threw him into the air like a ball; he was half beside himself with joy.
“You may hear me preach yet, Father,” he said.
“It really looks like it,” said Lucy smiling.
Meanwhile, the younger boys were not neglected. During the day they were all at school, but during the long winter evenings, Lucy amused and taught them, and made them very happy. They never wanted to lose one of these evenings around the pine table, by going elsewhere. After Hatty returned, one of them read aloud while their sisters were at work, a plan of threefold value. It helped their father pass the long evenings pleasantly when his failing eyesight made them useless to him, entertained the women who were sewing and mending, and kept the boys busy and happy. The boys who were not reading, knit. Many years later, Joseph displayed a towel he had knit to his wife, with which he had bought an old Latin grammar book.
Thus, the years passed. The days of Lucy’s youth went too, yet she remained still young. One temptation had disturbed the even surface of her life; and for a season, its very depths were stirred. It was put aside. Its history was never written. Thousands of hearts have thus suffered and thus conquered. Dr. White had always prophesied that “that youngster” would come back. But though he came, he soon went, and Lucy remained outwardly the same.
Leaning on her, her father passed serenely through his declining years, even unto death. Hatty went at last to a home of her own. The brothers ceased to be boys and went forth into the world. Of all that great household, Lucy was left the only one alone. Even Helen’s summer visits ceased at last. She too was a wife and a mother.
Among all the homes that now stretched forth friendly arms towards her, to which should Lucy go? She did not hesitate long. In a large, empty house, there still lived a little old faded woman; older, more faded, more solitary than when she offered a home to the young and beautiful girl fifteen years ago. There Lucy went, not so young now, but to many eyes more beautiful. Miss Prigott’s old heart rushed to meet her. Together they sat down at the fireside, talked over the years that had passed, and of the heavenly world yet unseen. Old age had been busy with the lonely, childless woman, but it had left the warm heart untouched. It glowed now with a happiness it had never known.
Years of domestic happiness had not stolen from Helen her love for Lucy. She welcomed Lucy with all her old tenderness and found her the same Lucy from whom she had learned so much in her girlhood. Herself unchanged, except that instead of the enthusiastic dreamer, she had become the enthusiastic doer of all that is lovely and good. Helen applauded, rather than censured Lucy’s choice of a home.
“You are making Miss Prigott’s last days more than happy!” she said. “But remember, you are mine next!”
By widely differing paths, Lucy and Helen had arrived at nearly the same point. God leads some of His children gently, and over a smooth and comparatively easy path. To others, He appoints a winding way, both dark and rough. And while the same hand leads alike over the plain and through the intricate way, the favored pilgrim will not boast, neither will the wearied one repine.
In her own happy home, surrounded with every comfort this world can offer; blessed in her husband, blessed in her children, Helen still kept her eye fixed on treasures that are invisible and eternal. If her leisure and her wealth were now almost without limit, so were her acts of benevolence, and her errands of mercy.
“You are my own child, now!” Miss Prigott said fondly to Lucy every day. At first, it seemed only an expression of affection. Every community has those who don’t believe there could be people of pure benevolence. They wondered what could induce a beautiful, accomplished young woman like Lucy to come and live with a capricious, fretful, dying old woman, except the hope of ultimate gain?
Lucy heard about these unjust suspicions and for a time, she was disturbed. But when, shortly after, Miss Prigott was found sleeping peacefully in her bed, that “last long sleep that knows no waking;” and it was found that, at Lucy’s urgent request, all her vast possessions had passed into the treasury of the Lord, busy tongues were silenced and envious ones satisfied. True to the playful promise of her youth, Lucy went to Helen, sat down beside her, and began to live over again the happy days they used to spend together.
Whom that looked upon that radiant face on which the very peace of God had forever stamped itself, could lament the discipline that had left such beautiful traces? And here we would gladly leave her, had no more than one voice exclaimed against it.
One of these voices, familiar to her youthful ear, made himself heard again in the depths of her heart. He whispered of years of long patience, fidelity, and devotion. He wooed her and gave her glimpses into a soul where she saw only noble aspirations and yearnings after God. At last, obeying his wishes, she went where he called her, found herself welcomed into a warm, manly heart, and there lived her last, which were also her best days! And so the prophecy of Dr. Thornton was fulfilled!
The End