Chapter 8 New Scenes and New Friends
Chapter 8
New Scenes and New Friends
It was decided that Lucy should return home with her uncle. He would not listen to one of the many objections urged against it by Lucy herself, who dared not confide in him her main reason for hesitating. This was a dread of proving an unwelcome guest to her unknown aunt. She shrank from the bare thought of thrusting herself, as she termed it, into a family where all were comparative strangers to her. But on the other hand, she was tempted to yield to the requests of her parents, whose anxiety about her health made them blind to other considerations.
“Never mind about her wardrobe,” said her uncle. “Everything she needs can be easily provided in New York.”
There was time, however, during his week’s absence, to make some additions to Lucy’s very scanty wardrobe, and everybody’s energies were concentrated on it. Amid the bustle and labor of this week, Lucy hardly realized that so great an event as separation from all she loved was before her. When her uncle returned for her, announcing his speedy departure, her heart failed her.
“Don’t make me go, Mother,” she said, taking her mother aside. “Please let me stay!”
“Dear child, I wish you could!” said the poor mother, who at this moment forgot all her secret resolutions of self-control and propriety. “I wish I dared keep you!”
“I won’t have a happy moment away from you,” pleaded Lucy.
“But, my dear Lucy, you will find God as truly there, as He is here. And He is better than many mothers.”
Lucy smiled through her tears. She tried to thank her mother for her dear love and patience, and tell her how she would think of her all the time, but she could not. Her uncle was waiting. She ran out, kissed them all again, and was gone. They stood looking out after her, all in tears, for this was the first parting they had ever known, and who could say what would happen between parting and meeting again? Only Arthur stood leaning quietly against the side of the door, looking pale, but composed. He thought he was getting too old to cry now, so he stood there, looking down the road, until he found himself alone. Then he went up to his room, bolted his door, and stretching forth his arms as if to reach and call her back, he cried, “Oh Lucy! Lucy!”
No other word escaped the brave young heart that now felt so lonely, so deserted. In a short time, he went down and went about his usual morning tasks. And when Hatty afterward wrote to Lucy, she said, “We all cried except Arthur,” and marveled as she wrote, and then forgot it. But his mother saw that from this day forward Arthur was, if possible, more gentle, more manly than ever. He was ever thinking of how to be of help to her. And in how many ways a dutiful, affectionate boy can lighten and smooth his mother’s life!
At the end of the third day, the travelers reached their journey’s end, and Lucy found herself kindly, if not warmly, welcomed by her aunt and cousin. She was heartily glad to find herself soon advised to retire for the night, for she felt not only weary but embarrassed and annoyed. Before leaving home, such additions had been made to her wardrobe that she had only been afraid of being over-dressed. But one glance at Helen had shown her the contrast between her country style and that of the city.
“They will be ashamed of me, I’m sure,” she said to herself, “and I shouldn’t have come here dressed like this.”
She had read of “country cousins,” whose manner, speech, and clothes all conspired to make their city friends blush with shame. How did she know that she had not fallen into the same error? She sat down and reflected a little, and after a few troubled, uneasy thoughts, came to a conclusion that quite restored her peace.
“I’m dressed as well as Father could afford, so I shouldn’t be ashamed. And it would be wrong and silly to try to do anything else. And if my aunt is annoyed, I’ll be very, very sorry, but I must try to bear that patiently.” She opened her little Bible, and her eye fell on the passage beginning, “Consider the lilies of the field,” and she read on to the end of the chapter. “Yes,” it seemed to say, “God knows that you need clothing as much as the lilies of the field. All you have to do is just wear, as the flowers do, the dress He gives you.” And the meek and quiet spirit with which she took the lesson home became as an ornament of grace about her neck, which many a well-adorned girl lacked.
Meanwhile, Mr. Whittier was subjected to a storm—if one may use so harsh an epithet—of questions of every possible form and intent.
“Why did you bring my cousin?” Helen asked half a dozen times, edging in her question at every available point.
“I brought her on account of her health,” her father at last answered. “She has a bad cough and has been advised to try a change of climate. I want you to do all you can for her pleasure and comfort.”
“What sort of a girl is she?”
“A very good sort of a girl, I believe.”
“Then I won’t like her at all,” said Helen decidedly. “I don’t like ‘good sort’ of people.”
“Well, then, if you prefer bad sort of people, I’m sure you will be supplied. There are plenty of them in this world.”
“But, Papa, can’t you tell me anything about her? Has she left school?”
“Indeed, my dear, I don’t know. I’m not sure she has ever attended school. And in the one day I spent in the house, I could not learn the individual character and history of ten children.”
“Ten!” cried Helen. “I have ten cousins? Oh Papa, among so many there must be some I’d like. Charles, do you know cousin Lucy?”
“Oh, she’s a nice enough girl,” said Charles. “Makes excellent pies and all that, and is quite an oracle among them. Rather good, I think.”
“I’m afraid I won’t like her. Mama, do people from the country always have shopping to do? And don’t they want to be on the go the whole time, to see what they can see?”
“There isn’t the least touch of selfishness about my little daughter, is there?” asked her father, gesturing for her to sit down beside him. Helen colored.
“Well, Papa, you know how I dislike sightseeing!”
“But you don’t dislike doing a kind act, I hope. Now your cousin has spent her whole life in the country. Everything here will be new to her. She is in delicate health. Unless I’m greatly mistaken, it’s from constant confinement to those little children, and it’s my opinion that she needs rest and amusement far more than a doctor. Her mother told me how she had been tied hand and foot to all sorts of domestic duties. The only wonder is the child isn’t spoiled.”
“I wonder how old she is,” said Helen.
“Let me see. She must be about seventeen, I think.”
“But, Papa, haven’t you talked with her on the journey? Don’t you know in the least what she is like?”
Her father laughed, shook his head at her, and turned his attention to her mother.
“I’m afraid life has been pretty difficult for them all,” he said. “Yet they seem cheerful. Mr. Grant still takes a rather melancholy view of life, yet it is wonderful how much religion has done for him in that respect. He is by no means the gloomy man he was. And the children seem more like their mother. I found it more difficult than I thought to arrange to cancel that debt. All I can do for now is edge along little by little, relieving them here and there in a quiet way, and eventually I may venture farther.”
“Is Mr. Grant that proud, then?” asked Mrs. Whittier.
“Not just that. I think as things are though, it would not be a good idea to press him too hard. My sister hinted that he might think I hoped to wipe out past offenses with money. I am sure she wanted me to use caution. The fact is, Grant is peculiar. One must be wary in dealing with him. But he is a good man, thoroughly upright and conscientious.”
Mrs. Whittier mused awhile in silence. “I don’t know how I would feel,” she said, “but it seems to me I could accept anything from a brother—for the sake of the children, at least. Especially if they are obliged to become mere household servants, as you say this Lucy has been.”
“But Grant is not my brother, you know. And it is not this debt alone that has kept them down. The farm is small and unproductive, and then they have had such a family! I was afraid I would step on them! There were always two or three crawling around on the floor.”
“Well, why don’t you buy them a larger farm, then?”
“Who? I? Why don’t I buy the sun or the moon!”
“But I’m not joking. If this farm of your brother-in-law is too small, why don’t you buy a larger one and settle them on it?”
“Yes, Papa,” said Helen, “I wish you would.”
“Women know a lot about business, to be sure,” said Mr. Whittier, leaning back in his chair, and laughing. “It’s good that they have somebody to look out for them.”
“But you haven’t answered me yet,” said his wife.
“Well, my dear, I will give you one reason out of many equally as good. I can’t afford it.”
She smiled and looked incredulous.
“In the next place, then, it would not be the best thing for them. In many little ways, less apparent and therefore less painful to them, I can make their future life more agreeable than it has been. For instance, if Lucy proves worthy of it, we can give her a year or two of such education as she needs. Then, as the other children grow, I can do the same for them, or something similar, as long as it’s for their good.”
“But are you sure you’ll live as long as they?”
“If I don’t, perhaps you will, and I couldn’t leave them in better hands. And when we are gone, Charles and Helen will do what we leave undone.”
All were silent for a season. At length, Mrs. Whittier said, “I don’t mean to press you too far; I only was moved to say what I have, by the appearance of that poor child. Her dress showed so plainly that life has, as you say, been difficult for them.”
“Why, was she not properly dressed?” cried Mr. Whittier.
“Yes, certainly, very properly. I was relieved to see no vulgar attempt at display in her. Yet I was also sad to think that your sister’s child took this long journey in the middle of winter, so scantily and poorly clothed. It made me ashamed of the house I live in and the clothes I wear.”
“You women see everything,” returned her husband. “I don’t know what magic you use, but somehow at a single glance you read a whole history in a faded shawl.”
“I read more than one in that sweet girl’s dress,” said Mrs. Whittier. “And more than one in her face, too I’m sure, though I’ve hardly heard her speak a word. Young as she is, she has passed through trials such as we only read about in books.”
“Come, come, let not get excited about it,” said her husband, trying to shake off the feelings of remorse that crept through his whole frame.
“I am not excited more than I always am when I see trouble I ought to have shared and alleviated.”
“But why have you let them stay poor so long, Papa?” asked Helen eagerly. Her mother shook her head. Helen did not notice it and pressed closer to her father, looking up into his face with a flushed cheek. He looked at her silently a moment.
“I was not always a Christian, Helen,” he said.
She asked no more that night. But her heart yearned already to love her yet unknown cousin, and every thought of herself vanished. Her mother’s words had excited new thoughts.
“I’ll do all I can to entertain her,” she said to herself. “I’ll go out shopping with her, and I’ll get books for her to read, and knitting work. But perhaps she isn’t fond of reading. I’m sure she isn’t. Well! I must think of something else, that's all.”
When Lucy rose the next morning, a little twinge of embarrassment as she put on her dress reminded her of her last evening’s reflections on it. But it was only for a moment, and when she entered the dining room, Helen’s warm greeting made her feel quite at ease again. Her aunt met her affectionately too, and Lucy reproved herself for having thought they were not friendly at the outset. Seated at the table with a huge paper in her hands was a little figure she had not seen before.
“Miss Prigott! This is my niece,” said her aunt, leading Lucy towards the lady. She sprang briskly from her seat and descended on them both with ardor and warmth enough for a dozen such meetings. Lucy felt herself more uncomfortable under these embraces than she could understand, for they certainly seemed as sincere as they were vivacious.
“I’m charmed to meet you, my dear,” she said, her little quick eyes running all over Lucy in a twinkling, “and it is an unexpected pleasure to see you looking so robust and rosy. They all tried to persuade me you were in delicate health. But I knew how it was. I haven’t lived to be fifty years old for nothing. Young people get sick of the country, and pine for the city. Yes, yes, I know.”
“I wasn’t sick of it,” said Lucy.
“Oh! Of course not, of course not,” said Miss Prigott, waving her hand as a final wave to the subject. They seated themselves at the table, and Lucy felt the little eyes running over her again. Now she felt them on her face, now on her dress, now on the trembling hand holding the silver fork.
“Not accustomed to a silver fork, I presume,” said Miss Prigott, sympathizingly. Lucy answered, this time without embarrassment, that she was not. “That’s right, my dear; always speak the truth, cost what it may.”
“If my cheeks burn as I do, I don’t wonder she calls me rosy,” thought Lucy.
After breakfast, Helen drew her aside and whispered, “You must not mind Miss Prigott. She’s a good enough little soul when one gets used to her, but hard to bear at first. Just let her see you don’t care for her, and she’ll leave you alone, in time.”
“But I do care for her,” said Lucy.
“I’ll just keep you out of her way, then. She doesn’t always live here. She’s waiting to find a new boarding house. She was burned out of the last one and came right here. You mustn’t laugh at her. Mama won’t like that.”
“I don’t want to laugh at her.”
“Why, don’t you laugh at anything? Are you always so solemn as you are now?” Lucy laughed. “You can’t suppose that what was said at breakfast brightened my spirits,” she said “It was too bad, I know.”
“Oh, it’s all over now. I was only a little taken off my guard. You know I’ve always lived at home and have seen nothing of the world. I’m sure it’s full of strange people.”
“I’m sure it is,” said Helen, but I know as little of it almost as you do. But come. I always take a long walk after breakfast. Will you go with me?” Lucy hesitated a moment.
“Won’t you feel a little ashamed to be seen in the streets with a country girl?” she asked, half playfully, yet half in earnest.
“Nonsense!” said Helen pleasantly, and in a few minutes they were in the open air, and Lucy felt like one of the busy crowd already thronging the streets. The noise confused her and she shrank from the passersby as they pressed in on her. She paid no attention to all the attractions
filling the shop windows. Helen hurried her along, directing her attention to this and that, until at last, stopping short, she asked, “Do you like to walk in such a crowd?”
“Definitely not! Can’t we get out of it?”
“I think we’ll get along very well,” said Helen. “I hate a crowd.” And with this common ground already established, they walked home, mutually pleased and satisfied.