12. Lucy
For some days after father's return Betty has eyes and ears for scarcely anyone else. To see his dear face, to listen to his dear voice, is such a true delight to her!
Then, too, his presence relieves her from a great responsibility. True, he is much too lame, as yet, to collect the rents, or to call on Mr. Duncan; but he takes all those tiresome accounts off her hands at once. It is as though an actual weight had been lifted from her shoulders, for she has felt the anxiety of keeping Mr. Duncan's books a heavy burden indeed.
But though Betty is deeply thankful to be rid of it all, she is beginning to realise how good this responsibility has been for her.
"I used to make such a fuss over little things," she thinks. "Why, I was quite upset if the girls came in with torn frocks, and dirty faces, or Clara did not clean the kitchen properly; worse still, I used to behave quite rudely to mother if she forgot to arrange the dinner in good time, or made me close a window when I thought it ought to be open. How irritable, how unreasonable I was! How hasty and inconsiderate!
"Ah! yes. I see now that God had to send me all these worries; I couldn't learn how to bear little troubles, until I had been through big ones. Dear Captain said that in a happy home every one had his or her true place. It was certainly never my place to speak to mother as I used to do.
"Yes, I believe mother has really loved me better than I deserved. Poor mother! Her life is much duller than mine; she has never had such a friend as my dear Captain Scott; she has never been in the country to stay with darling Grannie; she has just lived on at home, year after year.
"Why, it wasn't until I spent that lovely time with Grannie that I saw how much nicer things could be made here, and now I really believe they are nicer. I'm sure every one seems more cheerful lately. Jennie and Pollie have greatly improved; I'm so thankful to see that they have really taken little Minnie White as a close friend; she is a true Army Junior, and will do them a world of good.
"Harry doesn't seem quite so rough, and as for Bob, well, he's a perfect dear about those violin exercises now. I'm sure that half-hour we have together over the piano is one of the sweetest in the whole day; and, really, 'Exercise No. 4' is beginning to sound quite pretty.
"The only person in the house I can't altogether make out is Lucy; she certainly isn't all a sister should be, somehow. She does her share of the work, I suppose; but I declare I know more of Bob's thoughts than I do of hers--she lives in a perfect world of her own.
"She reads too much; I never knew such a girl for reading--always over some book or other. I mean to speak to her pretty plainly about that, directly I get an opportunity."
Alas! opportunities for speaking "pretty plainly" come only too easily.
The next day is washing day. Clara Jones's mother comes in to help; mother spends the whole day in the kitchen, and, of course, Betty has plenty to do.
By dint of almost superhuman exertions, Betty manages to inspire Clara and her mother with a desire to get the work cleared up before tea, instead of dawdling over the tubs until late into the evening. Her efforts are successful; by half-past four they have actually finished, and Betty looks forward to a rest, and cup of tea. She will ask Lucy to make it directly.
"Lucy!" she calls. No answer. "Where can that girl be? 'Lucy!' She must come--she ought to come; this is really too bad!"
She runs upstairs, still calling, "Lucy, Lucy!" She peeps into every room; there is no Lucy to be found.
At last a thought strikes her. "Surely she hasn't hidden herself away to read in the attic?" Betty's anger rises. Lucy is in the attic, sitting all huddled up in a chair, poring intently over a book; books, and pen and ink, on the floor beside her.
"Lucy, what on earth are you doing here? And to-day, of all days! I've been searching the whole house to find you; we all want our tea, and you are calmly amusing yourself with a book!"
"Tea? It isn't tea-time yet, is it?" stammers Lucy, her pale face flushing painfully red, as she pushes her book out of Betty's sight.
"You know I always like tea early on washing-day," cries Betty, still more sharply, "and I must say, I do think it most selfish and thoughtless of you to go away by yourself like this, when we are all up to our eyes in work!"
"I didn't know; I thought the washing was finished," says poor Lucy, her lip beginning to quiver.
"That's nothing to do with it; we're all tired and want our tea; but you never gave that a thought; all you seem to care for is to get away by yourself to read some silly story-book. Such shocking waste of time! Such unsociable behaviour! I only hope you are not reading novels. I am sure it looks as though you come up here sometimes because you are afraid to let father and mother know what you are doing!"
Lucy's head droops lower still, but she makes no answer.
"Well, now, is it a novel?"
"No-o."
"Then let me see it at once."
"Betty, I'd rather you didn't; that is, not just now; some other day, perhaps----"
"Oh, it doesn't make any difference; whatever it is, you've no business to waste your time in this way. Do, for goodness' sake, leave books alone for a while, and attend to your work!"
That night Betty goes to sleep with an uneasy sense that the day has not been altogether well spent, in spite of the success of her washing schemes.
Awakening, some hours later, with this uncomfortable feeling strong upon her, she begins to ask herself what has been wrong? Conscience soon tells her that she has been unkind to her sister.
"I did speak sharply, and I certainly felt very vexed; but, then, it was aggravating, and there is really too much to do in our house for that sort of thing.
"Of course, I know that Lucy is not so old, or so strong, as I am; but she should have remembered how much I like an early cup of tea on washing-day, and----. What was that? Lucy, did you speak?"
Betty breaks off her meditations hastily, and raises herself on her elbow. Is Lucy asleep on the pillow beside her--surely, she spoke just now?
She is speaking, or, rather, muttering, in her sleep. How strange! Can she be ill?
Then Betty remembers, with a faint thrill of alarm, that Lucy ate neither tea nor supper; and, when mother asked the reason, she said her head ached.
For a long while she lies awake, listening to her sister's uneasy whisperings. "Oh," she thinks, "why was I so unkind to her--suppose she should be really ill?"
Lucy is really ill. After a troubled night of feverish dreaming, she awakes to a consciousness of great pain and stiffness in all her limbs. A doctor is sent for; her parents' worst fears are realised, Lucy is stricken down with rheumatic fever.
She is very quiet and patient, and tries hard not to complain. Her mother nurses her, relieved by Betty now and then.
Love has taught Mrs. Langdale to be a good nurse; love makes her forget her own small illnesses and worries, and think only of her poor little daughter's suffering.
The remembrance of her unkind words gives Betty bitter pain. Lucy was ill when she scolded her. Oh, if she had known!
After a while, as Lucy grows better, Betty begins to excuse herself again. "She did read too much; I was right in that, and reading is waste of time--only I wish I hadn't been so cross with her."
Slowly the pain grows less, slowly the fever cools; but, alas! for poor Lucy, the doctor says he fears that this illness will leave lasting bad effects behind it; that, though she will soon be fairly well, she will never be quite as strong again as she has been.
One afternoon, Betty is sitting with her sister, while Mrs. Langdale rests. Lucy has just finished her basin of bread and milk, and Betty thinks she is asleep, until she hears her sigh softly to herself, and then make a restless movement on her pillow.
Betty is at her side in an instant.
"Do you want anything, Lucy?"
"No, thank you, Betty," she says, in her weak, patient voice. But Betty sees that two large tears are rolling down her cheeks.
"O Lucy, you mustn't fret, that's ever so bad for you, and, besides, you're getting well so fast. Shall I read to you? You were very interested in some book just before you were taken ill--tell me where to find it."
"No, no, Betty, not that book; it's of--no--use--now." Lucy's lips quiver so painfully, that she can hardly pronounce the words, and she buries her face in her pillow.
"Lucy, don't! Oh, please, don't! I was horrid to you that day, and I've been sorry ever since. Do let me read, if it's only to make up a little."
Her arm around her sister's neck."But, Betty, it's of no use. I can never, never, never do it now. I heard the doctor tell mother this morning that I should always have to be careful, or I should be just as bad again, and--and--it's only really strong people who can do--what I wanted to do." Lucy's voice dies away into such a faint whisper that her sister can only just catch the last words.
"Do what?" asks Betty, in great surprise. Then, suddenly, an idea strikes her. "Ah! Lucy, were you studying for something all the time--not just reading to amuse yourself--were you learning about some work you wished to do?"
"Yes, Betty."
"And all these months I have never thought of that. Oh, what was it? Come, tell me, Lucy, dear."
"I--I wanted to go to the poor heathen women in India, some day, you know. I had read how they suffered, and--and it seemed that God was telling me to go. So I got all the books I could about India--to be ready when the time came--and I read, and read, and even began to learn their language."
"Why, Lucy, how could you do that?" exclaims Betty, in the greatest astonishment.
"My music teacher's elder sister came home from India a little while ago, and she told me what books to get from the Library."
"And you did all this, and I never guessed. How stupid--how blind I have been!"
"No--no, Betty. I ought to have confided in you; but, somehow, I couldn't speak of it. I felt it too much, and now it is all at an end," and her sobs break out afresh.
But Betty leans over the bed, and lovingly draws her arm around her sister's neck.
"O Lucy, I feel that you forgive me for my unkindness, but I cannot forgive myself. When shall I get out of the habit of judging too hastily? I can see quite well now that you couldn't tell me your plans, because I was always so full of my own affairs."
"Betty, Betty, that wasn't the reason. You work so hard for all of us--how could I bother you with my hopes and fears?"
"Ah, Lucy! I never met anyone with so much to do, or so many folks to care for as my dear Captain. Yet no one thinks her too busy to listen to their troubles. I must learn to be more like her--to empty my heart of self--then, dear, you will never hesitate to tell me everything."