 | VII.
FLIGHT. Lucy Arlyn |  |
7. VII.
FLIGHT.
BUT, motherless and fatherless as Lucy feels, her
aunt is still left her.
That strait-laced Pharisee comes to her room
at dusk.
“Well, miss! this is pretty conduct! Traipsing round
all day, and now coming off here to mope! Where have you
been?”
No response from Lucy: her heart is ice. “Answer me,
then!” And Mrs. Pinworth grasps her arm with a vigor of
clutch which leaves black rings imprinted.
Aroused by the pain, “I will answer you!” cries Lucy,
“once for all,” — flashing back her indignation through the
dusk, — “you wicked, cruel woman!”
“What? you call me” — A violent shake of the grasped
arm rounds the sentence.
Lucy feels a momentary impulse to stick her scissors into
the Pinworth wrist. She restrains it, however: she will
speak scissors, but use none.
“I call you what you are! You know it is true: you
know you have been wicked and cruel to me!”
“This,” gasps the astonished lady, “after all I have done
for you!”
“What have you done? Have you kept your promise to
my father? — my poor father, who is so good himself, he
thinks every one is a saint that seems so! You were to be
a mother to me; but what a mother!”
“Lucy! — Lucy! — how dare you” —
“If anybody needed kindness, or longed to repay it with
love, I did,” — and, at the recollection, Lucy bursts into tears.
“Oh! why did you make me hate you? I would have been
your slave, if you would only have been kind to me. But
oh! you have been so harsh, so cruel, so unjust!”
“Ungrateful!” Mrs. Pinworth articulates, between fury
and alarm.
“Haven't I worked for you?” answers Lucy. “And
didn't my father give you more money than I have ever cost
you? Do I owe you for any thing but injuries? Oh! and
you might have made me love you!” she adds in a voice
that has less anger in it than sharp pain and regret.
At that, down goes the Pinworth relict on her knees to
chastise her niece before the Lord in prayer. Lucy can't
stand that.
“You are not a Christian, Aunt Pinworth. You don't do
as you would be done by. You don't love anybody but
yourself. You are without charity. Your prayers are wicked
in her ears: a needless precaution, however; for Mrs. Pinworth,
unaccustomed to having the truth dashed into her
teeth so defiantly, is too strongly agitated, and perhaps self-convicted,
to go through with the intended mockery. She
begins to weep. Lucy is touched. “Yes, yes, you may
pray, I will hear you,” she adds, relenting. “Oh! if you
would only pray with me as my mother used to pray! I
need such prayers, I am so weak, so unhappy!”
Within the nut of the hardest heart some human juices
may be found, if you can only crack it. Lucy, without
knowing it, has pierced the Pinworth shell. The rude truth
she has spoken could not alone have done it; but LOVE, which
gives truth its greatest power, — LOVE, which burns and
yearns deep down in Lucy's soul, and struggles up through
every thing, — LOVE has done the work.
“You have misunderstood me, we have misunderstood
each other,” the widow falters. “Perhaps I am not a Christian;
but God knows I mean to be!” with a burst of sincerity
in her tones, which gives Lucy a new insight into human
character, and teaches her charity.
It flashes upon her in an instant, that the worst hypocrite
is not all hypocrisy, nor the worst villain all villany; but
self-deception, fancied necessity, the entanglement of circumstances,
betray them into wrong when they wish to do right.
In order to judge them, we must learn to see them as they
see themselves, which only God can do, and such generous
of having judged her aunt; and there, humbly, tearfully,
by the light of the rising moon that shines into the chamber,
she asks forgiveness for that fault, unintentionally dropping
fresh coals upon Mrs. Pinworth's head.
In order truly to humble others, we must be humble ourselves;
to conquer, we must be self-conquered; to melt stony
hearts, ours must be full of melting fire. The aunt stands
trembling and pale in the moonlight.
“Forgive me, Lucy! I know I have done wrong: we
can't always do right. When I can pray with you, I will;
not now. Don't you want some supper?” she asks with
unwonted kindness.
“I don't care for any: I can't go down now,” answers
the niece, looking out upon the moonlit world.
Mrs. Pinworth is gone; and there, by the window, Lucy
musing sits, until, to her utter astonishment, the door is again
opened, and her aunt returns, bringing a lamp, with cake and
pie on a plate.
“You'd better eat something, Lucy.” And, setting down
the things, Mrs. Pinworth retires again, silently, and with
something of her old dignity.
Lucy's impulse is to call her back, and tell her all; but she
hears Sophy's voice.
“I never saw such a fool as you are, mother! — carrying
supper up to that selfish, lazy thing! She don't deserve any
supper!”
Which decides her to keep her own counsel, and perform
in silence and secrecy what she has resolved.
The long night; the preparation for the journey; the sighs,
the thoughts of love, the prayers; the stars setting, the day
rising, the suffering soul still watching, — why dwell upon all
this?
Joyously as ever sang the first bird under Lucy's window.
Clear and sweet and silvery was the dawn; and, at the coming
of the sun, all the angels of light and color flew before to
curtain and carpet his way.
Lucy's resolution was not like the sun, but resembled more
the wan and crumbled disk of the old moon, fading to a
sickly film over the way she was to go. Yet that way lay
her destiny. She had ceased to reason or resist: follow she
must that sad and pallid face; though love pursued her like
the greater orb, all life and fire.
Looking from the window, she saw Archy waiting for orders
by the garden fence. At a sign from her, he came upon the
piazza. There she met him, dressed for her journey, and
bringing out her travelling effects, all contained in a band-box
and bag. The genius took them from her. They departed
in silence. Farewell to the Pinworth household — forever!
“O Archy!” said Lucy, — something like a throb of joy
thrilling her when the irretrievable step was taken, and she
walked free under the morning sky, — “if our flying-machine
was only ready! Wouldn't we dash up into the delicious
ether; bathe our heads in the sunshine, like eagles; float off
if we should ever wish to come down, look out for some
country where it is always morning!”
Although his invention had never been made to appear so
poetical before, Archy did not smile.
“But,” said Lucy, “I suppose cars and carriages must
answer till you get out your patent. What makes you so
sober, Archy?”
“I hate to have you go, the wust kind!” said the genius,
brimful of grief. “I'd ruther give any thing!”
“O Archy! I believe you are the best boy in the world!
I'd stay if I could, if only to please you. What are you
stopping for? We've no time to spare. Let me take the
band-box.”
“Oh, no!” The genius held it between his feet. “I can
carry 'em.”
“Then don't stop. Oh, you mean to make me lose the
cars, Archy!”
“No, I don't; not if you're bent on goin'. I — I wish”
He was feeling in his pocket, — for his handkerchief, Lucy
thought; but he brought out instead an old leather purse.
“I got a little money, — not much. I don't want it; and
I'll be much obleeged to you if you'll take it off my hands.”
“O Archy! don't make me cry! God bless you, Archy!
but I have saved a little money for this very journey.”
“Maybe you won't have enough: you've got to take it!”
And he tried to hang the purse on her wrist.
“No, no: I can't, Archy. You will want it more than I
shall: there, put it up.” Lucy insisted; and reluctantly the
genius returned the leathern receptacle with its small cash
contents to his pocket.
He snuffled a little, used his sleeve, and took up the luggage.
They walked on in silence. Suddenly he stopped
again, with a startled look, his mouth open, as if he had forgotten
something.
“I'm afraid I done wrong!”
“You, Archy? You couldn't do wrong.”
“Guy wanted to see me arter I brought you the letter last
night. I didn't think but that he knowed; and I'm afraid
I told him” —
“That I was going this morning?” cried Lucy.
“Not exactly that; but you see, when he got hold of me,
he wanted to know jest how you looked, and what you said,
and every thing; and wouldn't let me go nohow till I had told
him sumpthin'. I couldn't help it: I'm real sorry,” said the
genius regretfully, observing Lucy's alarm. “I hope 'twon't
be no harm.”
“I hope not. Come!” She caught up the bandbox,
and hurried him away, looking eagerly before and behind,
thrilling at the thought of Guy, fearing he might appear to
intercept her, and yet, despite her soul, almost hoping he
would.
“That's the whistle!” said Archy.
“His whistle?” was her first thought, remembering his
train, uttering its wild scream of warning from afar.
“I am glad! Oh, you must help me now!”
She almost ran. The railroad station was near. They bustled
in: a ticket was bought; the bag was checked; the train
arrived. In a whirl of excitement, Lucy stepped aboard.
Archy handed her the band-box, and they shook hands.
How breathlessly it all happened!
“Good-by, Archy!” and she disappeared in the car.
The train started, and Archy stood staring mournfully
after her; when sudden bounding footsteps were heard, and a
form rushed swiftly past, chasing the cars, catching an iron
hand-rail, and, with a vigorous leap and swing, alighting safely
upon the platform.
It was Guy Bannington.
| VII.
FLIGHT. Lucy Arlyn | |