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Little Lucy Rose
by
The minute Madame saw her a singular light came into her eyes — the light of love of a childless woman for a child. Similar lights were in the eyes of Miss Parmalee and Miss Acton. They looked at one another with a sort of sweet confidence when they were drinking tea together after school in Madame’s study.
“Did you ever see such a darling?” said Madame. Miss Parmalee said she never had, and Miss Acton echoed her.
“She is a little angel,” said Madame.
“She worked so hard over her geography lesson,” said Miss Parmalee, “and she got the Amazon River in New England and the Connecticut in South America, after all; but she was so sweet about it, she made me want to change the map of the world. Dear little soul, it did seem as if she ought to have rivers and everything else just where she chose.”
“And she tried so hard to reach an octave, and her little finger is too short,” said Miss Acton; “and she hasn’t a bit of an ear for music, but her little voice is so sweet it does not matter.”
“I have seen prettier children,” said Madame, “but never one quite such a darling.”
Miss Parmalee and Miss Acton agreed with Madame, and so did everybody else. Lily Jennings’s beauty was quite eclipsed by little Lucy, but Lily did not care; she was herself one of little Lucy’s most fervent admirers. She was really Jim Patterson’s most formidable rival in the school. “You don’t care about great, horrid boys, do you, dear?” Lily said to Lucy, entirely within hearing of Jim and Lee Westminster and Johnny Trumbull and Arnold Carruth and Bubby Harvey and Frank Ellis, and a number of others who glowered at her.
Dear little Lucy hesitated. She did not wish to hurt the feelings of boys, and the question had been loudly put. Finally she said she didn’t know. Lack of definite knowledge was little Lucy’s rock of refuge in time of need. She would look adorable, and say in her timid little fluty voice, “I don’t — know.” The last word came always with a sort of gasp which was alluring. All the listening boys were convinced that little Lucy loved them all individually and generally, because of her “I don’t — know.”
Everybody was convinced of little Lucy’s affection for everybody, which was one reason for her charm. She flattered without knowing that she did so. It was impossible for her to look at any living thing except with soft eyes of love. It was impossible for her to speak without every tone conveying the sweetest deference and admiration. The whole atmosphere of Madame’s school changed with the advent of the little girl. Everybody tried to live up to little Lucy’s supposed ideal, but in reality she had no ideal. Lucy was the simplest of little girls, only intent upon being good, doing as she was told, and winning her father’s approval, also her cousin Martha’s.
Martha Rose was quite elderly, although still good-looking. She was not popular, because she was very silent. She dressed becomingly, received calls and returned them, but hardly spoke a word. People rather dreaded her coming. Miss Martha Rose would sit composedly in a proffered chair, her gloved hands crossed over her nice, gold-bound card-case, her chin tilted at an angle which never varied, her mouth in a set smile which never wavered, her slender feet in their best shoes toeing out precisely under the smooth sweep of her gray silk skirt. Miss Martha Rose dressed always in gray, a fashion which the village people grudgingly admired. It was undoubtedly becoming and distinguished, but savored ever so slightly of ostentation, as did her custom of always dressing little Lucy in blue. There were different shades and fabrics, but blue it always was. It was the best color for the child, as it revealed the fact that her big, dark eyes were blue. Shaded as they were by heavy, curly lashes, they would have been called black or brown, but the blue in them leaped to vision above the blue of blue frocks. Little Lucy had the finest, most delicate features, a mist of soft, dark hair, which curled slightly, as mist curls, over sweet, round temples. She was a small, daintily clad child, and she spoke and moved daintily and softly; and when her blue eyes were fixed upon anybody’s face, that person straightway saw love and obedience and trust in them, and love met love half-way. Even Miss Martha Rose looked another woman when little Lucy’s innocent blue eyes were fixed upon her rather handsome but colorless face between the folds of her silvery hair; Miss Martha’s hair had turned prematurely gray. Light would come into Martha Rose’s face, light and animation, although she never talked much even to Lucy. She never talked much to her cousin Cyril, but he was rather glad of it. He had a keen mind, but it was easily diverted, and he was engrossed in his business, and concerned lest he be disturbed by such things as feminine chatter, of which he certainly had none in his own home, if he kept aloof from Jenny, the colored maid. Hers was the only female voice ever heard to the point of annoyance in the Rose house.