at the list of questions, she found that several of them were on the
part of the subject she had overlooked, and that these she could not
answer at all. She felt that all chance of the prize was over; but she
did not allow her mind to dwell on this circumstance, but wrote her
replies to the other questions, with a calmness and clearness which
would have been quite beyond her power, had she allowed herself to
remain in a condition of feverish suspense.
When the examiners' decision was made known, it was found that the
first prize had been awarded to Miss Eastwood, who was quite taken by
surprise at receiving it; but that, as Miss Raymond's paper had been
so good in all except a very few points, the second prize, awarded to
her, was considered almost equal to the first. This was much better
than Lucy had expected; and as she received two first prizes in
subjects where she had felt by no means sure of success, she was on
the whole very well satisfied, as was Fred also, when her joyful
letter informed him of the result.
Stella announced Lucy's success at home with almost as much pleasure
as if the success had been her own. Edwin congratulated her with
rather more animation than he was in the habit of showing, and Ada
declared that "It must be nice to be so smart."
"Yes; but Lucy has been injuring her health by her close study,"
remarked the more observant Sophy. "Look at her now, how pale and thin
she is, compared with what she was when she came!"
"Oh, the holidays will set me all right again," Lucy declared,
laughing; but Mrs. Brooke decided that Lucy needed immediate change of
air. She had been hoping to be able to spend her holidays at Ashleigh,
among her old friends; and as the Brookes were all going to a
fashionable seaside resort, it seemed likely that nothing would occur
to prevent the hoped-for visit. But Amy's cough, as well as other
symptoms of delicacy of the lungs, had increased so much, that the
doctor declared the sea-air too keen for her, and that she had better
be sent, during the warm season, to a quiet inland place in the
neighbourhood, the air of which he thought particularly suited to her
constitution. But of course Amy could not be sent there alone, and
none of the rest would have been willing to give up their proposed
visit to the seaside, except Mrs. Brooke, who could not be spared from
her duties to her other daughters.
Lucy therefore seemed the one who should accompany Amy, and she
herself felt that it was an occasion on which she might make some
return for the kindness she had met with in her uncle's family. So
her visit to Ashleigh was given up, and Amy's delight at finding that
she was to accompany her to Oakvale, was enough to make her forget any
disappointment which her decision had involved. They were to be
received into the family of a friend of the doctor's, a widow lady,
who frequently received invalids as boarders, with whom little Amy
would receive all the care and comfort she needed.
A few days before their departure, Lucy at last received, through
Bessie Ford, the address of Nelly Connor's mistress. Stella, who,
notwithstanding her raillery at Lucy's _protegée_, had a sort of
latent interest in Nelly, from her association with her pleasant visit
to Ashleigh, accompanied her cousin in her long walk to look for the
house. On reaching it at last, tired and hot, the door was opened, not
by Nelly, as Lucy had hoped, but by an unprepossessing-looking woman,
whose hard face grew more rigid when informed what was the object of
her visit.
"You needn't come here to look for her," she replied grimly; "she's
left this some time since, and I don't never want to set eyes on her
again."
"Is she not here, then? Where is she gone?"
"I don't know," was the reply, "and I don't want to know. A girl that
could behave as she done to one who took such pains with her, and kept
her so long, ain't a girl to my taste. I wash my hands of her."
"But perhaps you could tell us what place she went to from you?"
persisted Lucy. "I am a friend of hers, and would like to find her
out."
"Well, she is no credit to her friends," said the woman, rather
pleased at being able to give her a bad character where it might be of
some consequence. "And as for the vagrant character she went off with,
I'd be very sorry to have any acquaintance with him."
Finding the uselessness of prosecuting her inquiries there, Lucy bade
Mrs. Williams good-day, feeling sure that Nelly's conduct had been
misrepresented,--an opinion shared by Stella, who had taken a strong
dislike to the woman's grim demeanour and spiteful tone,--and very
sorry for having lost the only clue to her _protegée_ once more.
XIII.
_A Friendship._
"We had been girlish friends,
With hearts that, like the summer's half-oped buds,
Grew close, and hived their sweetness for each other."
Lucy and Amy were soon settled in Mrs. Browne's pleasant little
cottage at Oakvale, a pretty sheltered village surrounded by hills,
clothed principally with noble oaks, whence it derived its name. Mrs.
Browne's house lay a little way out of the village, amid green fields
and lanes, which, after the hot, dusty city streets, were
inexpressibly refreshing to Lucy, recalling old times at Ashleigh.
Mrs. Browne was a kind, motherly person, a doctor's widow, herself
possessing a good deal of medical skill, which rendered her house
especially eligible for invalids, and she established a careful watch
over little Amy, whose very precarious condition her practised eye saw
at a glance. Whenever the child, feeling better than usual, would have
overtasked her failing strength in the quiet country rambles, which
were such a delightful novelty to one who had scarcely ever been
really in the country before, and when Lucy's inexperience might have
allowed her to injure herself without knowing it, Mrs. Browne would
interpose a gentle warning, which was always cheerfully obeyed. It was
with some surprise, indeed, that she noticed with what perfect
submission the little girl bore all the deprivations of innocent
pleasure which her weak state compelled, as well as the feverish
languor which often oppressed her in the hot August days. This
submission arose from the implicit belief which, child as she was, she
had, that everything that befell her was ordered by the kind Saviour,
who would send nothing that was not for her real good. Such a belief,
fully realized, would soon relieve most of us from the fretting cares
and corroding anxieties that arise from our "taking thought" about
things we cannot control.
"I never saw a child like her," Mrs. Browne would say; "indeed, she's
more like an angel than a child, and it's my belief she'll soon be one
in reality. And I'm sure heaven's more the place for her than this
rough world."
However, Amy seemed to improve under the healthful influences of
Oakvale, living almost wholly in the fresh open air, perfumed with
mignonette and other sweet summer flowers, sitting with Lucy under the
trees before Mrs. Browne's house, or in her shady verandah, where,
even on the warmest day, there was a breeze to cool the sultry air.
Lucy would read to her, sometimes some of Longfellow's simpler poems,
out of one of her prize-books, and sometimes out of more juvenile
story-books brought down for Amy's benefit, who was never tired of
hearing her favourites read over and over again, to which she would
listen with an abstracted, thoughtful expression, as if she were
interpreting the story in a spiritual fashion of her own. "Heaven is
about us in our infancy," says the poet; and it is nearer to some
children, by the grace of God, than older people often imagine.
When Lucy wanted to read to herself, Amy would amuse herself quietly
for hours, dressing her dolls, and looking over the illustrations in
her story-books, supplying the story from memory. Lucy conscientiously
kept up her practising on Mrs. Browne's piano, and always ended by
playing and singing some hymns for Amy, who was passionately fond of
music, and loved to try to sing too, with her sweet, feeble voice.
As Mrs. Browne, having but one servant, had a great deal to do
herself, Lucy volunteered to assist her a little. She had always been
accustomed to perform some household tasks at home, and it was quite
an amusement to her and Amy, bringing back old days of her childhood,
to vary their mornings by shelling the peas for dinner, or, when it
was not too warm, picking the fruit for Mrs. Browne's preserves. So
pleasant did Lucy find it, that she thought her city cousins really
missed a good deal of enjoyment, in never, by any chance, employing
themselves in anything of the kind, even when the busy servants were
really over-worked. Indeed it is somewhat surprising that domestics go
on as contentedly as they do in their constant treadmill of labour,
often too much for their strength, when so many healthy members of the
families for whose benefit they toil spend so large a portion of their
time in luxurious idleness, or in mere pleasure-seeking.
In the fresh, cool morning, after their early breakfast, and in the
evening, when the heat of the day was over, Lucy and Amy always went
for a short ramble, climbing a little way up one of the hill-paths, or
wandering by the side of the stream, which, fringed with elm and
birch, wound through the village that lay on both sides of it, the
river being crossed in two or three places by rustic bridges. From the
point on the hillside which generally formed the limit of their walk,
and where they used to sit on a mossy stone to rest, they had an
extensive view over the surrounding country, diversified with
corn-fields, orchards, and deep green woods, and dotted with
farmhouses, while close at their feet lay the white cluster of
village-houses, with a few of higher pretensions scattered here and
there on the green slopes by the river-side, among their shrubberies
and embowering trees.
The fields were beginning to wear the deeper and richer hues of
approaching autumn, and it was a perpetual pleasure to watch the
rippling motion of the golden grain waving in the breeze, or the rapid
changes of light and shade on the fields and woods, as the clouds
passed swiftly over the sky. To watch these were their morning
pleasures; but better still, perhaps, they loved the quiet sunset
hours, when the glowing tints of the sky seemed to clothe the
landscape in an unearthly glory, and then gradually each bright hue
would fade out from the sky and from the land below, leaving the scene
to the solemn repose of the shadowy evening, broken only by the
flitting fireflies, or to the flood of silver light shed by the rising
moon. But Amy was never to be allowed to be out in the night air, so
that their rambles had to be over before the damp night dews. They
generally found Mrs. Browne standing at the gate, awaiting their
return, anxious lest her charge should have ventured to remain out too
long.
More than a week of their stay had passed rapidly by, when, one
evening that Lucy and Amy were spending in wandering by the river, the
former suddenly recognised approaching them the familiar form of her
classmate, Miss Eastwood, the winner of the first history prize. The
recognition was of course mutual, and in the surprise of meeting so
unexpectedly, and in explanations of how it had come about, the two
girls exchanged more words than they had ever done when in the same
classes at Mrs. Wilmot's.
"And you did not know Oakvale was my home?" said Mary Eastwood, when
Lucy had told how she and her cousin came to be there. Lucy had never
heard where Miss Eastwood's home was, and it had not occurred to her
to connect the Dr. Eastwood, of whom Mrs. Browne often spoke, with the
name of her classmate. Mary showed them her father's house,
beautifully situated on the opposite sloping bank of the river, which,
with its shady trees and white gate, reminded her a good deal of her
own old home, though the house was larger and handsomer. Dr. Eastwood,
who was with his daughter, looked at little Amy with a good deal of
interest, asking a number of questions, while he held her delicate
hand in his, and watched her fair, pale face with his keen eye. He and
Mary walked back with them to Mrs. Browne's cottage, promising to come
and see them soon, and inviting them to visit Mary.
This unexpected rencontre greatly added to Lucy's enjoyment of her
stay at Oakvale. The cousins very soon had the pleasure of spending an
afternoon in Dr. Eastwood's family,--a Christian household after
Lucy's own heart. Now that the first stiffness of their
school-relations had been brushed off by the surprise of their
meeting, the two girls found each other delightful companions, and
soon became fast friends. It was the first time Lucy had ever found a
congenial companion of her own sex, and their friendship afforded a
new and ever-increasing delight. They saw each other every day, and
often spent the long summer mornings, alike pleasantly and profitably,
in reading aloud by turns, from some interesting and improving book
out of Dr. Eastwood's excellent library. Mrs. Eastwood often sat by,
also enjoying the reading, and, by her judicious remarks, directing
the minds of her young companions to profitable thought. The book
selected was often a religious one, such as some people would have
considered only fit for Sundays; but it was not the less interesting
to them on that account, and gave rise to some of their happiest
discussions, when each perceived, with delight, how thoroughly the
other could appreciate and reciprocate her own deepest feelings.
Little Amy would listen attentively at such times, showing by her
interest that she comprehended more of what was said than could have
been expected. But whenever Mrs. Eastwood thought the conversation
beyond her depth, or her mind too much excited, she would send her
away to play with her own younger children, who were always glad to
place all their toys at her disposal, and do all in their power for
her amusement.
At Dr. Eastwood's the readings generally went on under a spreading
walnut-tree on the lawn, and Amy would roam at large with the
children, or come and rest within hearing, just as she liked.
Sometimes she would lie still for hours on the cushions which Mrs.
Eastwood had laid on the grass for her benefit, gazing through the
flickering green leaves into the blue depths of the sky, her earnest
eyes looking as if they penetrated beyond things visible, and held
communion with thoughts not suggested by any mortal voice.
Often in the afternoons, while Amy was safe and happy with her little
friends, Mary and Lucy would take a walk of some miles, carrying
perhaps some message or comfort for some of Dr. Eastwood's poor
patients, or driving with him on some of his distant rounds, or rowing
in a boat on the river with one of Mary's brothers, to gather
water-lilies, and bring home their snowy or golden flowers in their
waxlike beauty to delight little Amy, who was sensitively alive to all
natural loveliness.
During these expeditions the two girls discussed almost every
conceivable topic of mutual interest, and gave each other the history
of their previous lives, though Mary's had flowed on almost as
uneventfully as Lucy's had done previous to her father's death. They
compared notes as to their favourite books, poetry, and theories,
their tastes being sufficiently different to give rise to many a
pleasant, good-humoured controversy. Sometimes, when deeper chords
were touched, they confided to each other some of their spiritual
history,--what influences had first brought them to know a Saviour's
love, and then led their hearts to Him who had given Himself for them.
Mary, who had a little class of her own at Oakvale, listened with
much interest to the account of Miss Preston's parting words to her
class, and the influence they had had on her scholars.
About her dear departed father, too, and the beloved home-circle, Lucy
had much to tell. She said much less about the Brooke family; and
Mary, who could understand how little congenial was the atmosphere of
her uncle's house, respected her reticence. Lucy felt that she had no
right to communicate any unfavourable impression of those from whom
she had received so much kindness, and whose hospitality and kindness
she had enjoyed so long.
"I always felt as if I wanted to know you better, Mary, when we were
at Mrs. Wilmot's," said Lucy one evening, as they were returning home
from a woodland walk, laden with wild-flowers and ferns. Mary coloured
a little, and hesitated.
"I'm afraid I was very stiff and selfish, Lucy dear," she replied;
"but mamma used to give me so many cautions about mingling with
worldly people, that I thought it was best to keep apart from them
altogether. And I was told Mr. Brooke's family were so gay and
worldly, that I supposed you must be so too; and so I thought I ought
not to get into any intimacy that might lead me into temptation."
"I suppose it is right to try to keep out of temptation," said Lucy
thoughtfully.
"Yes; but now I can see that I wasn't right in being so distrustful as
to be afraid of what came naturally in my way. Mamma says that to be
afraid of what may involve temptation, when God's providence,
rightfully construed, leads us into it, is something like the dread
which keeps people from doing their duty in cases of infection;
whereas they should trust that, so long as they do not expose
themselves to it wilfully and needlessly, God will care for them in
the path by which He leads them, as well as in circumstances which
look more secure."
"Yes, I'm sure that's true," said Lucy, thinking of what Fred had said
to her when she had felt afraid to venture into the temptations of her
uncle's house. "But then, whenever we get over our fear and feel
secure, we are sure to fall into some snare."
"Yes," replied her friend, "because we forget our own dependence on
Christ for strength, and begin to walk in our own, instead of looking
to Him continually for help."
"Do you know," said Lucy, "one of my greatest temptations was studying
for the history prize! I was so determined to have it--so set upon
it--that I let it come before everything else, and forgot to ask to be
kept from temptation in it, till, just before the examination, I found
I had forgotten part of what was to be studied; and then, in my
disappointment, I found out how wrong I had been."
"Oh," exclaimed Mary, "I was almost sorry I got the first prize, which
I hadn't been expecting at all, for I was sure you would be dreadfully
disappointed. You had worked so hard for it--harder than I did."
"No, I wasn't disappointed then; I was sure I shouldn't get it, and
didn't expect even the second prize; and I felt quite satisfied that
it should be so, for I had been working in so wrong a spirit, that I
could not have felt happy in getting the prize that had led me
astray."
"Well, it's a relief to my mind to hear you say so," replied Mary,
laughing, "for I felt quite guilty whenever I looked at that book,
feeling as if I had by some incomprehensible accident taken it from
the one who really deserved it."
Mary had as yet known but few temptations. Her life had been so calm
and sheltered, that she had had no experience of contrary winds, and
her natural disposition was so equable, that she had very little
consciously to struggle against. Perhaps her chief temptation lay in a
tendency to placid contemplative Christianity, without sufficient
active interest in others; and Lucy's opposite qualities acted as a
counteracting stimulus, while Mary's peaceful spirit of trusting faith
calmed and soothed Lucy's rather impatient disposition. Thus in all
true loving Christian companionship we may help each other on, making
up what is lacking in one another by mutual edification.
One warm Sunday evening, after a very sultry day, Lucy and Amy were
sitting together in Mrs. Browne's verandah. Mary had just left them,
having walked home with Lucy from the evening service, and they had
been discussing the sermon, which had been chiefly on sin and its
hatefulness in the sight of God, as well as upon the fountain opened
to remove it. After she was gone, they had sat for some time in
silence, watching the fireflies glancing in and out of the dark trees.
Suddenly Amy said, "Lucy, do you expect to go to heaven when you die,
for sure?"
"I am quite sure there is nothing to prevent my going there," said
Lucy, "for I know Jesus is able and willing to take me there."
"Shall I go there when I die, Lucy?" she asked, with a solemn
earnestness that went to her cousin's heart.
"Why should you not, dear Amy, when Jesus died that you might?"
"But 'God will not look upon sin,' the Bible says, and I have a sinful
heart; I feel it," replied the child.
"Well, why should Jesus have died for you if you had not? It was just
to take away sin that Jesus came to suffer."
"But it isn't taken away; I know it's there," persisted Amy, who had
evidently been distressing herself with the question how a heart,
sinful on earth, could be fit for the pure atmosphere of heaven.
Lucy explained, to the best of her knowledge and ability, that while
sin still clings to our mortal natures, Jesus has broken its power for
ever, and taken away its condemnation, so that when we receive Him
into our hearts by faith, God no longer looks upon us as sinful and
rebellious children, but as reconciled through the blood of Christ.
And the same blood will also purify our hearts; and when soul and body
are for ever separated, the last stain of sin will be taken away from
the ransomed spirit.
Amy listened, and seemed satisfied,--at least she never recurred to
the subject; and, so far as Lucy knew, it was the last time that any
perplexing doubts clouded the sunshine of her happy, childlike faith.
Pleasant as were the days of their stay at Oakvale, they came at last,
like all earthly things, to an end. The warm August weather had passed
away, and the September breezes blew cool and fresh, permitting them
to ramble about with comfort even during the hours which they had
before been obliged to spend entirely in the shade. The seaside party
had already been settled at home for a week or two, before it was
thought advisable that Amy should be brought back to the city. At
last, however, the summons came, and Lucy spent the last two or three
days in revisiting for the last time all the favourite haunts where
she had spent so many happy hours. She and her friend did not,
however, permit themselves to repine at the ending of what had been to
them both such a very delightful resting-place in their life-journey;
since
"Not enjoyment and not sorrow
Is our destined end or way;
But to live, that each to-morrow
Finds us farther than to-day."
Mary, who had delayed her own return to school on her friend's
account, was to accompany them to town, to begin her last year at Mrs.
Wilmot's.
Amy had seemed so well during their stay at Oakvale, that Lucy had
become hopeful of her complete recovery. But Dr. Eastwood warned her
that the improvement might be merely temporary, and that in any case
it was, in his judgment, impossible that Amy could ever be quite
strong and well. "And I don't know," he said kindly to Lucy, who felt
a sharp pang at the thought of losing her dear little cousin, "that it
is well to set your heart on the prolongation of a life which can
scarcely be anything but one of weakness and suffering."
So with many mingled feelings of hope, and fear, and regret, and many
kind farewells from all their Oakvale friends, the young party took
their departure, and found themselves soon again among city sights and
sounds.
XIV.
_An Unexpected Recognition._
"For love's a flower that will not die
For lack of leafy screen;
And Christian hope can cheer the eye
That ne'er saw vernal green.
Then be ye sure that love can bless
Even in this crowded loneliness,
Where ever-moving myriads seem to say,
Go! thou art naught to us, nor we to thee; away!"