youngest daughter, whose improved appearance he was much pleased to
note; and Stella met them at the door with every demonstration of
delight. "It has been so dull here without you!" she exclaimed; "the
house seems so quiet, after all the fun we have been having at the
seaside. I've been teasing papa to let me go for you, and I would have
gone if you hadn't come soon!"
She was looking prettier than ever, Lucy thought; so blooming, and
gay, and graceful, after her seaside sojourn. Her cousin could not
wonder that she won her way to most people's hearts, and was forced to
admit the contrast between her and her fragile little sister, whose
faint bloom even now did not remove the appearance of ill-health. But
there was on her pale face a spiritual beauty, a repose and peace,
which Stella, in all the loveliness of a pure rose-tinted complexion,
lustrous eyes, and gleaming golden hair, did not possess. It was the
reflection, outwardly, of the "peace of God which passeth
understanding."
Stella talked all the evening without ceasing, and at night
accompanied Lucy to her room, there to go on talking still, enlarging,
in a lively, amusing strain, on the adventures of their seaside life;
the "fun," the "splendid bathing," the people who were there, their
dress, manners, and conversation; all the flirtations she had
observed, with the quick eye of a girl who as yet has no personal
interest in such matters. When at last Stella paused in her own
narration to ask questions about Oakvale, Lucy gladly took advantage
of the break to insist on postponing all further conversation until
the morrow, especially as, she urged, they were keeping Amy from the
sleep she needed so much after her long journey, and accustomed as she
had lately been to early hours. Lucy indeed felt determined that the
same thing must not happen again on any account, as the consequences
to Amy of having her mind and nervous system excited so late at night,
when she was always too much disposed to wakefulness, might be
exceedingly injurious.
"Oh, how I wish Stella were more like dear Mary!" thought Lucy, as she
laid her head on her pillow, and compared Mary's kind thoughtfulness
with Stella's impulsive, flighty giddiness. As to externals, Stella
had very much the advantage, for Mary Eastwood could not be called
pretty, and was rather reserved in manner with those whom she did not
know well; but Lucy could not help feeling Mary's great superiority as
a companion, when she compared the state of mind in which Stella's
stream of gossip had left her, with the elevating, stimulating
tendency of her conversations with Mary on subjects more worthy of
immortal beings. They seemed mutually to draw each other on to a
sphere far above the petty frivolities on which so many fritter away
powers given for higher ends. Even when they did not touch on topics
directly religious, they seemed to be far nearer the Light that is
"inaccessible and full of glory," when discussing the working of God's
laws and providence in nature and history, than if their minds had
been lowered and discoloured by dwelling on the faults, follies, and
petty concerns of their neighbours.
Sophy, who had been a little fagged and worn out by her incessant
round of gaiety, previous to her going to the seaside, was now looking
more brilliantly handsome, Lucy thought, than she had ever seen her.
Stella had informed her that Sophy's betrothed had been at the seaside
with them. "And oh, he's so delightful, you can't think! So handsome,
and good-natured, and obliging! I can tell you, Sophy looked proud of
him there! He gave her the loveliest emerald set; you'll see her wear
them. And I'm pretty sure they're to be married next spring, though
she won't tell me; but I'll coax it out of Ada."
Lucy thought Sophy must be very happy; yet she could not help thinking
if both she and her lover were really Christians, how much happier
they would be! Nothing Stella had said led her to suppose that he was;
and if he were, what an alloy of anxiety and separation in the most
important points would mar the perfection of love!
It was with increased zest, and a fuller appreciation of the interest
and value of her studies, that Lucy entered upon them once more. The
happy weeks at Oakvale had been of permanent benefit to her, in
opening new channels of thought and enlarging her sphere of mental
vision, both through the books she had been reading, and the comments
of Dr. and Mrs. Eastwood, both of whom had thoughtful, cultivated
minds. She now studied with very little reference to prizes, or even
the approbation of masters, but from a deep interest in the studies
themselves, and a feeling of their beneficial effect in leading her to
higher ranges of thought. Every new attainment was but a step to a
fresh starting-point in the never-ending pursuit of knowledge; and
Longfellow's beautiful lines often recurred to her mind,--
"The lofty pyramids of stone,
That, wedge-like, cleave the desert airs,
When nearer seen and better known,
Are but gigantic flights of stairs."
Then the feeling grew to be more and more strong with her, that every
new acquisition--every step in mental discipline which God had given
her the opportunity of making--was a talent to be held in trust and
used in His service. Mrs. Eastwood had explained that, though we may
often have to study during the years of school life without seeing
what special use we may be called to make of our acquisitions, still
God will undoubtedly find some use for whatever power we have gained
while following the leading of His providence. "Therefore," she would
say, "the doubt whether such and such a thing will ever be of any use
to us is no excuse for sloth in acquiring it, when it is clearly our
duty to do so."
Her studies were rendered doubly interesting by the companionship of
Mary Eastwood, who was animated by the same spirit, and in whose
friendship she found her greatest pleasure during the winter. Stella
was rather surprised at the affectionate greeting between her cousin
and Miss Eastwood the first day they met at school, for she had
scarcely given Lucy an opportunity of telling her more than that they
had met often at Oakvale.
"Well, to think of your having all at once struck up such a violent
friendship with that stiff, quiet Miss Eastwood!" exclaimed Stella,
who thought her cousin's choice of a friend rather unaccountable.
Lucy's efforts to draw together her cousin and her friend were
unsuccessful, and perhaps this was quite as much Mary's fault as
Stella's, arising from her strong feeling against cultivating intimacy
with any one who was "of the world." It was almost the only practical
point on which she and Lucy disagreed, for Lucy tried to persuade her
that she might do real good if she would come more in contact with her
irreligious schoolmates. But Mary replied that this might do for some,
but she did not feel strong enough,--she might herself be led away.
She was not yet fully persuaded in her own mind.
So Lucy gave up the point, and had a somewhat difficult position to
maintain between her cousin and her friend,--not that Mary was ever
jealous, but Stella did not at all like the affection her friends to
be diverted towards any one else; indeed, it was the only thing that
ever seemed really to a "put her out." She was conscious to some
extent that a much deeper sympathy existed between Lucy and Miss
Eastwood than between Lucy and her, and she feared that if it
increased, her cousin's regard for her must necessarily diminish.
One bright, sunny October day, when the air was clear and bracing, and
the wind was tossing the red leaves that fell from the trees in the
squares, Lucy and Stella were on their way home from school, when they
heard at a slight distance the plaintive strains of a hand-organ,
carried by a meagre, careworn Italian, who seemed to be working his
instrument mechanically, while his eye had a fixed, sad, stedfast
gaze, unconscious, seemingly, of anything around him. Lucy was looking
compassionately at the dark, sorrowful face, and wondering what his
previous history might have been, when her eye was suddenly caught by
the familiar form and face of the girl who stood by with her
tambourine, singing a simple ditty, which somehow brought old days at
Ashleigh back to her mind. The figure she saw, though arrayed in
tattered garments, and the face, though sunburnt to a deep brown, were
not so much altered as to prevent almost instant recognition. Lucy
grasped Stella's arm, and exclaimed, "Why, it's Nelly!" and before the
astonished Stella comprehended her meaning, she hastily stepped
forward towards the tambourine-girl, who almost at the same moment
stopped singing and sprang forward, exclaiming, "Oh, it's Miss Lucy,
her own self!"
Both were quite unconscious, in their surprise, of the bystanders
around them; but Stella was by no means so insensible to the
situation, and was somewhat scandalized at being connected with such a
scene "in the street." She begged Lucy to ask Nelly to follow them
home, which was not far off, and then they could have any number of
explanations at leisure. Lucy at once assented, and asked Nelly if she
could be spared for a little while. With a happy face, flushed with
her surprise and delight, Nelly went up to the organ-grinder and said
a few words, at which he smiled and nodded. She then followed her
friends home at a respectful distance, while the man went on his way
from house to house.
Nelly's explanation of her present odd circumstances was very simple,
and, on the whole, satisfactory. In the hot July weather, when she
felt her overtasked strength failing, and could scarcely manage to
drag herself about to perform her daily round of duty, often scolded
for doing it inefficiently, the poor organ-grinder came one day with a
face more sorrowful than ever, and told Nelly, weeping, that his
daughter--his _povera picciola_--had been carried off by one of those
sudden attacks that so soon run their course and snap the thread of
weakly lives. He was so lonely now, he said, he could not bear it!
Would Nelly come and be his daughter, and take poor Teresa's forsaken
tambourine? She had a voice sweet as Teresa's own, and he would teach
her to sing when he played. She should have no hard work, and no
scolding, and they would take care of each other.
It was a tempting offer to poor Nelly, pining under continual chilling
indifference and fault-finding. While she was hesitating, her
mistress, hearing a strange voice in the kitchen, came down in wrath
to dismiss the intruder, who rose instantly at the sound of her harsh
voice. "I go, signora," he said in his foreign English, "and this girl
goes with me. You give her too hard work and hard words. I will take
care for her, and she shall be to me as the _povera_ who is dead!
Come, _picciola_!"
Mrs. Williams had by this time so far recovered from her amazement as
to find voice enough to demand of Nelly whether she was really going
to be so ungrateful as to leave a place where she had been so kindly
treated, and ruin herself for life, by going off with a wandering
character like that. But Nelly's reply was ready. "You said, ma'am,
you'd have to send me away because I couldn't do your work properly.
So I think I'd better go."
And hurriedly collecting her few possessions, she was ready in two
minutes to accompany her newly-found protector. Mrs. Williams
endeavoured to detain her, threatening to "take the law of her." But
Nelly was determined. Anything was better than remaining there; and
Mrs. Williams, who was somewhat overawed by the Italian's determined
eye, gave up what she saw was a vain attempt. She shut the door after
them with expressive force, and then went up-stairs to discourse to
her daughter on the incredible ingratitude and heartlessness of such
creatures.
Nelly had faithfully served Mrs. Williams to the utmost of her
strength and ability for five months, and her mistress had in return
given her food of the poorest quality, and one old print dress of her
own, worn almost to tatters. Yet Mrs. Williams, having herself a
pretty hard struggle to make both ends meet, was at least more
excusable than those who, themselves abounding in wealth and luxury,
grind down, so far as they can, the poor hirelings who may be in their
power.
Since then Nelly had faithfully followed the poor Italian, whom, at
his own desire, she called "_padre_." It did not to her mean the same
as "father," nor would she have given to any one else the name sacred
to her own unforgotten father. But she was to the poor man as a
daughter; and her brown face, though still thin, had lost the pining,
wistful look which had been previously habitual to it. Lucy observed
the glow of pleasure that lighted up her face when she heard again the
familiar sound of the organ in the distance. The _padre_ was very good
to her, she said, and though they often had long weary rounds, with a
scant allowance of pennies, they always had enough to eat; and
hitherto it had been very pleasant, and she had no hard scrubbing or
washing to do.
"I'd have died soon, Miss Lucy, if I'd stayed at Mrs. Williams'. Was
it wrong to come away?"
Lucy could not say it was, in spite of the irregularity of the
precedent.
"But the _padre_ won't be able to go about in the winter time, Miss
Lucy, for he has such a cough and pain in his breast whenever he gets
wet or cold; and some days he's hardly able to play his organ, and
then I don't know what he'll do. What could I do, Miss Lucy, to help
him?"
Lucy promised to consider the matter. She had obtained leave to give
the organ-grinder and Nelly a good substantial meal in the kitchen,
which was greatly relished by both. She took down the name of the
street in which they lived, and got a minute description of the house,
promising soon to visit them. The man was evidently far from strong,
and his bright, hollow eye and haggard face, sometimes unnaturally
flushed, betokened too surely incipient disease.
"And why did you never come to see me, Nelly? You knew where I was,"
said Lucy, as they were going away.
"Oh, Miss Lucy," exclaimed Nelly eagerly, "but I did, three times, but
you weren't in; I was ashamed to come any more. The last times they
said you were away in the country."
"But why didn't you leave word where you were living, and I would have
found you out?"
"Oh, Miss Lucy, I couldn't think you'd be at the trouble of coming to
see me!"
"Well, I will come, though, now I know where you live," said Lucy as
she bade them good-bye.
Little Amy had been very much interested in the history of Nelly, as
Lucy had told it to her, and had come down to see her. She stood by,
putting her thin hand on hers, and looking up wonderingly in her face,
exciting Nelly's compassion and interest by her sweet, delicate look.
"She's more like an angel than Miss Stella, though I used to think her
like one," thought Nelly.
Amy asked many questions about Nelly and the "poor man," and begged
Lucy to take her when she went to see them. But so long a walk was out
of the question for Amy, nor would her mother have consented to let
either her or Stella go to such a quarter of the city. Even Lucy's
going was a matter for some consideration, but she begged hard to be
allowed to fulfil her promise. At last Edwin good-naturedly said he
"didn't mind going with Lucy, to see that she wasn't carried off for
her clothes, like the little girl in the story-books;" and they made
the expedition together, her cousin waiting outside while Lucy paid
her most welcome visit.
They found the place a very quiet one, and the street, though poor,
not at all disreputable. Edwin gave the best account of it he could,
that Lucy might be able in future, without his escort, to visit Nelly,
as she occasionally did, accompanied by her friend Mary Eastwood, who
sometimes spent the Saturday afternoon with her at Mr. Brooke's. Their
visits and little gifts of money were very timely, for the poor
organ-grinder was growing less and less able to persevere in his
uncertain calling; and though Nelly was practising plain sewing, that
she might be able to earn something herself, it was not likely that
her exertions could bring in much.
In these visits to Nelly the two friends soon found out other poor
people in the same locality, even more urgently needing a kind word
and a helping hand. In work of this kind, as in most other things, "it
is only the first step which costs." One has only to make a beginning,
and straightway one case leads to another, and that interest grows
with the work, until to some happy and highly-privileged people it
really becomes their meat and drink thus to do their Father's
business.
This new kind of work was a great interest to Lucy, and in planning
how best to aid the poor in whom she was interested, and in diligent
and happy study, the autumn months passed rapidly away.
XV.
_The Flower Fadeth._
"And yet His words mean more than they,
And yet He owns their praise;
Why should we think He turns away
From infants' simple lays?"
As the autumn deepened into winter, bringing cold, damp days, and
chilling, keen winds, little Amy's strength seemed steadily to
decrease, notwithstanding all the care taken to reinforce it by the
most nourishing diet that money could command. Every delicacy that
could tempt her appetite, every kind of nourishment that could
strengthen her system, was tried, without success. Dr. Eastwood had
been right in his augury, that her seeming improvement had been only
temporary, and that the delicately-organized constitution was not
meant for the wear and tear of long life. So evident at last did the
decline become, that a consultation was held as to whether it would
not be advisable to remove her for the winter to a warmer climate;
but the more experienced physicians were decidedly of opinion that
taking her away from her home and family would be a needless cruelty,
and that, since no human skill could now arrest the disease, it was
better to leave the little patient to live, as long as she might,
surrounded by the comforts and the kind nursing at home. This opinion
was not fully communicated to her parents, but they instinctively
felt, what was really the case, that their child was only left in
their home because she must ere long be removed from it for ever.
Lucy had long taught herself to think of such an issue as at least a
probability; but her cousins by no means realized the advanced state
of Amy's disease. They persuaded themselves that, with care, she would
"get over" her delicacy, and they would not even think of the
possibility of a fatal termination of it. One cause of this was
probably the circumstance that the winter gaieties had commenced, and
that invitations, parties, and dress were now uppermost in their
minds. Had they been convinced that their little sister was dying,
they could hardly have had the heart to join in their usual round of
gaiety; but they easily persuaded themselves of the contrary, and felt
no scruples about going on as usual.
Stella, who had shot up almost to womanly height within the last year,
had assumed the dress and appearance of a "young lady," as
distinguished from a little girl. The foretaste of gay life she had
had at the seaside had made her impatient to plunge into it at once,
and she besieged her parents with entreaties that she might be allowed
to "come out" that winter. She succeeded so far with her father, who
could seldom deny her anything, as to obtain leave to go to as many
private parties as she could, without interfering with her studies.
But of course, with a limit so indefinite, the bounds were often
overstepped. Her love of gaiety only grew with the indulgence of the
taste, and she felt really unhappy when she had to see her sisters go
to a party without her.
But late hours and excitement very soon affected a constitution which
had never before been so severely tried; and as she would conceal any
indisposition when she thought it might keep her at home, the
consequences sometimes became serious. At last, her rashness in going
out, thinly dressed, one cold winter evening, when she was already
suffering from a slight cold, brought on a severe attack of
inflammation of the lungs, by which she was prostrated for several
weeks, and which left behind a slight cough. This, the doctor warned
her, would require the utmost care, to prevent its growing into what
might prove very serious indeed.
Lucy, of course, owing to her deep mourning, and the school-work which
engrossed her mind and time, had had no temptation to mingle in any of
her cousins' amusements, though, had it been otherwise, she could not
conscientiously have frequented scenes of amusement which she had been
taught by her father to consider unworthy of those who have made up
their minds to leave all and follow Christ. For the same reason, she
had refused Stella's urgent solicitations to accompany her in
occasional visits to the opera and theatre, places of which her father
had often told her the spiritual atmosphere was entirely foreign to
that in which Christians should seek ever to dwell. Though Stella's
glowing descriptions sometimes excited the longing to see the magic
sights and hear the magnificent music of which they told, she felt
that she could not sincerely pray, "Lead us not into temptation," if
she wilfully went into it; nor could she from the heart have asked her
Saviour's blessing on the evening's amusement.
During the general engrossment of the household with Stella's alarming
attack, Amy's rapid sinking of strength was not for some time much
noticed, except by Lucy, who felt, in spite of her hopes, that the end
was drawing near.
Lucy had been forbidden to speak to her little cousin about death, as
if the avoidance of the thought could have anything to do with
delaying the event; but happily there was no need for doing so, since
her little heart was evidently resting on her Saviour, and she was
thus prepared for whatever He should send her. Her childlike faith,
and her vivid realization of heavenly things, seemed to grow stronger
as her bodily strength failed; and though she never specially referred
to death, the approach of which a child is not able to realize, her
mind was evidently full of thoughts about heaven, about its glories
and occupations, about Him who is "the resurrection and the life." She
was always asking questions about the childhood of Jesus,--questions
which Lucy often found it impossible to answer,--and was never tired
of hearing the few passages in the New Testament which referred to it.
Some instances of childish sin seemed to weigh upon her conscience;
but Lucy reminded her that the Lamb of God had washed away her sins
with His own blood, and that the moment we come to Him by faith, we
are sure of the forgiveness of past sin, as well as of deliverance
from its present power. This perfectly satisfied her, and nothing else
seemed to trouble her.
The little girl was intensely interested in the poor Italian, who was
sinking almost as fast as she was. He seldom now stirred from his
chair in the warmest corner of the room, and his cough had become
terribly harassing, especially at night. His breathing, too, was much
oppressed; and poor Nelly had often a heavy heart, as the conviction
forced itself upon her that she was about to lose the kind friend and
protector around whom her warm heart had closely entwined itself. She
tried hard to earn a little for his support and her own, by the sewing
which she occasionally got, often from people nearly as poor as
herself; but her utmost exertions in this way would not have sufficed
to keep them from starvation, had it not been for the timely aid
brought by Lucy and by Mary Eastwood, whose well-supplied purse was
always ready to furnish what was needed for their comfort. Lucy had
very little to give of her own, but Mrs. Brooke was sufficiently
interested in her account of the case to be very willing to help, for
she was not at all indisposed to benevolent actions, if she had had
the energy to discover the way. Amy, too, always insisted that a
portion of the delicacies prepared for her should be kept for "the
poor organ-grinder;" and one of her greatest pleasures was in hearing
from Lucy how the invalid liked what had been sent him, and how
gratefully he sent his thanks to the little "signorina." She asked
Lucy whether the poor man loved Jesus, and would go to heaven when he
died, and seemed much grieved at hearing of his praying to the Virgin,
the mother of Jesus.
"What a pity!" she would say, "for she can't hear him, nor save him,
can she? And so his prayers will be of no use!"