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Title: Lady Lucy's secret;
or, the gold thimble
Author: Lucy Ellen Guernsey
Release date: December 11, 2024 [eBook #74876]
Language: English
Original publication: United States: American Sunday-School Union
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LADY LUCY'S SECRET; ***
Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the
public domain.
THE
CHILDREN OF STANTON-CORBET;
OR,
_Tales of English Children_
FROM THE REIGN OF QUEEN MARY TO THAT OF
QUEEN ANNE.
[Illustration: _Lady Lucy's Secret—Frontispiece._
Aunt Bernard stood transfixed with amazement and anger.]
_The Children of Stanton-Corbet Series._
_[Year 1704]_
——————————————————
LADY LUCY'S SECRET;
OR,
THE GOLD THIMBLE.
_By the Author of_
"NELLY, OR THE BEST INHERITANCE," "OPPOSITE NEIGHBOURS,"
"IRISH AMY," ETC.
_[Lucy Ellen Guernsey]_
——————————————————
PHILADELPHIA:
AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION
NO. 1122 CHESTNUT STREET.
——————————————————
_NEW YORK: Nos. 7 & 8 BIBLE HOUSE._
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by the
_AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,_
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the
Eastern District of Pennsylvania.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
LADY LUCY'S SECRET;
OR,
_The Gold Thimble._
———————
CHAPTER I.
I WONDER whether, if you had seen Lady Lucy sitting at her work that
warm August morning, you would have thought her a person to be envied.
She certainly looked very pretty, and not at all unhappy, as she sat
in her straight-backed chair, carrying her long-waisted, snugly-laced
little figure very upright, her shoulders down, and her chin drawn
in,—bridled, as the phrase went. In those days—for this was at the
beginning of the eighteenth century—great attention was paid to the
carriage of young ladies,—more than appears to be thought necessary
at the present time, to judge by the attitudes into which I often see
little girls throw themselves, even in company. They were taught to
sit and stand very upright, to carry their arms carefully, to turn out
their toes and hold up their heads. No stooping was permitted over
books or work; and while Lady Lucy was living with her aunt Bernard,
she used to have a bunch of knitting-needles stuck into her bodice, to
keep her from "poking" over her work.
Lady Lucy was young,—only a little past eleven years old,—and small
for her age: nevertheless, she was the rightful heir of the splendid
room in which she now sat, with its heavy carved furniture, its worked
tapestry hangings, and inlaid cabinets,—of the fine old house, Stanton
Court,—of the lovely gardens and shrubbery which lay stretched before
the windows, and the beautiful park, and many a farm and moorland
besides. She could only just remember her mother as a delicate lady,
with beautiful long black hair and dark eyes, who was very kind to her
and used to talk to her in a musical, soft-sounding language, which was
not English, nor at all like any tongue she ever heard nowadays. When
Lady Lucy learned to be confidential with Cousin Debby, she told her
of this strange language in which her mother used to talk; and Cousin
Debby informed her that the language was Italian, and that some day she
should learn it herself.
When Lucy thought of her mother, it was always as sitting down on the
floor to play with her, or hearing her say her prayers, or else as she
lay in her coffin all dressed in white, when Aunt Bernard would make
the child kiss the cold face, and called her an unfeeling, heartless
girl, because she had cried and screamed to get away and had declared
that that was not her mother. Lucy almost thought that she began to
hate Aunt Bernard from that moment. Certainly there was always war
between them from that day; and, though Aunt Bernard was the stronger
and compelled the child to obey, she never won her love.
It was not so very pleasant, after all, this being an heiress, with no
father or mother to love and pet one, no little sisters for playmates
to help dress the doll or nurse the kitten, or to make foxglove dolls
and cowslip-balls, or tell tales in the seat under the tall old elm.
Aunt Bernard said that, for her part, she meant to do her duty by
the child: there would be people enough to spoil and flatter her
by-and-by. I really think, too, that when she began she meant what she
said,—though she was perhaps mistaken as to what constituted her duty
but, as the time wore on, and she could not but see that Lucy disliked
her, she began in her turn to dislike Lucy and the poor child led a
hard life of it.
Aunt Bernard lived in a beautiful place. It was an old timbered house,
of which the beams were black with age and the plastered spaces between
marked off into patterns. There was a beautiful though not very large
garden, with green alleys and grass-plots, where Lucy would have liked
to play if she had been allowed, and where grew abundance of flowers.
At the bottom of the garden was a tall hedge, clipped close and smooth
like a wall, with arched openings leading through to another green,
beyond which, again, was a pretty stream where ducks and geese, and one
old swan, sailed up and down all day long.
Lucy would have enjoyed playing on the green, and sailing little boats
upon the stream, and throwing bits of bread to the waterfowls but she
was never allowed to do any of these things. If she ever ventured to
run or romp, she was reminded that she was a lady,—a countess in her
own right,—and that she must not demean herself like the parson's
little girls, who worked in the hay-field, or gathered cowslips for
wine in the meadows, or herbs and roots for their mother to distil
into medicines and cordials. Lucy used many times to wish that she had
been the daughter of that stout, good-natured gentleman and his plump,
rosy little wife, who walked to church every Sunday morning followed
by their ten children, two by two, and looking so happy and pleasant.
True, the little Burgess girls hardly ever seemed to have new gowns
or hoods, even for Sundays, and their weekday frocks were coarse and
mended but she was sure that Polly and Dulcie Burgess were much happier
than she was. But when she ventured to express this thought to Hannah,
her aunt's waiting-woman, Hannah reproved her sharply, and added that
it served Mrs. Kitty Lindsay right for marrying a poor parson, that she
should have such a host of children and nothing to keep them decent.
Poor Lucy could not make hay, or gather primroses in the lanes, or
carry jugs of skim-milk to the poor old people, as Polly Burgess did.
She must practise on her lute so many hours a day, instead of singing
sweet old country songs and ballads like Polly and her sister. She must
work at her sampler and her satin stitches so many hours more, and read
and write so much longer. She must read so many chapters in the Bible
aloud to Aunt Bernard, taking them as they came, whether it were a long
chapter of hard names and nothing else, or a beautiful story in the New
Testament. She must learn her lesson standing in the stocks to make her
turn her toes out, and carrying a heavy bag of beans upon her head that
she might attain a good carriage, or strapped up to a back-board or
lying flat upon the floor, to straighten her back.
If there was daylight enough after all this was done, she might walk up
and down the green path in the garden and around the shrubbery for a
certain length of time. There was one place in her walk where Lucy was
out of sight of the garden-windows for some little distance and here
she used to peep among the branches for the birds' nests, and strew for
the robin-redbreasts the few crumbs she could contrive to save from
her breakfast. There was a garden-seat, too, old and broken, where she
could venture to rest a few minutes and look at the sky or the water,
while she thought about her mother and wondered if she remembered her
poor little girl who was so very, very unhappy and lonely without her.
Lucy did not think so much about her father. She had only seen him
twice since she could remember, when he had come from the wars. She
thought he must have been a good man, because her mother had been so
happy when he came home; and she was sure he was kind to her and used
to give her rides upon his shoulder or his foot. She remembered, too,
the day when the news came of his death, and she had been dressed in
black and told it was for her dear papa who had been killed in the wars
abroad. But it was of her mother that she loved to think at such times,
even though the remembrance made her feel more unhappy than ever.
Poor little Lucy! It was a sad, irksome life. It would have been dull
enough if Aunt Bernard had been kind to her but she was not. She did
not love the little girl. She envied her because Lucy was rich, and
she herself poor, or, at least, not wealthy. She had hated her mother
before her, and she visited it on her little daughter. Lucy could never
do any thing right. Whether she sat or stood, ate or drank, worked,
read, or played, Aunt Bernard always saw something to find fault with.
Nor was fault-finding the worst. Aunt Bernard carried a fan with a long
whalebone handle, and there were few days in which the impression of
that whalebone was not printed upon Lucy's shoulders or arms, nor many
weeks during which she was not sent supperless to bed in the dark.
She would have fared worse than she did, if Margery, the cook, had
not pitied the child. Sometimes Margery would contrive to bring her
a cake or a biscuit; and when Mrs. Bernard went away on a visit with
her waiting-woman Hannah, Margery would make feasts for Lady Lucy in
the kitchen, and sometimes allow her to bake little cakes for herself.
These were Lucy's happy days, when she could sit in a corner of the
great chimney and watch the cook bustling about her work, or the
milkmaid bringing in her pails of fresh milk and carrying out buckets
of whey to the pigs. It made no difference to Lucy that her aunt always
forbade her going into the kitchen,—unless, indeed, it rather added
to her pleasure to think that she was disobeying Aunt Bernard and for
once having her own way. It was perhaps the worst result of that lady's
system of management that Lucy learned to take pleasure in deceiving
and outwitting her.
One day, however,—one memorable, miserable day,—all these surreptitious
feasts came to a sudden end. I will tell you about it particularly,
because it was the means of bringing about a great change in Lucy's
manner of life.
On this day Aunt Bernard set out in her carriage to make a visit at
Langham Hall, some twenty miles away. She was to stay over-night with
Lady Langham and return home the next evening. She left Lucy plenty of
work to do, and many injunctions as to her conduct, and threats as to
what would happen if she were disobedient.
Lucy stood demurely at the door and watched the carriage out of sight
and hearing. Then she started and ran like a hare down the garden, and
through the gate in the holly hedge, to the water-side, but presently
came running back to beg for some bits of bread to feed the swan.
"Bless the poor child!" said kind old Margery. "'Tis like a kitten
let out of a basket, to be sure. But, Lady Lucy, my dear, had you not
better do your tasks before you go to play?"
"I cannot do them all before my aunt comes home again,—no, not if I
were to work all night, Margery!" said Lucy, shaking her head. "And if
I have the least bit undone I shall be scolded and beaten as much as if
I had not touched them: so where is the use? I may just as well play
while I can."
"'Tis true what the child says," remarked Anne, the housemaid, as
Margery looked grave: "my mistress has left her marking and open-hem
enough for a grown woman, besides all her other tasks,—more shame to
her, I say, to have no feeling for her own flesh and blood! Never
mind, Lady Lucy: I will take hold of it when my work is done, and you
shall have one good play. But you must mind and wear your gloves and
your hood, and not break your nails and scratch your hands with the
brambles, or my mistress will find you out."
"I don't feel right about teaching and helping the child to deceive her
aunt," said Margery, when Lucy had rather unwillingly gone to seek her
hood.
"I don't care one pin," replied Anne, decidedly. "If my mistress
treated any of us with any confidence, or put any trust in one, it
would be different; but so long as she and Hannah are always spying
and prying about, and won't believe a word one says, even though it
should be gospel truth, why, they may just find out what they can, for
all me. I shall just sit down and do up the child's open-hem for her,
and my mistress may find out the difference if she can. It will not be
the first trick I have played her in my time,—nor you either, Mistress
Margery."
Margery sighed, and shook her head. She was not satisfied with Anne's
reasoning, nor did her own conscience acquit her in the matter, but she
was very fond of Lucy, and loved to see the child happy for once, as
she said. So she set about making currant buns and a gooseberry fool—an
old-fashioned country dish, than which there are few better—for Lucy's
supper. But Lucy was not destined to the enjoyment of these dainties.
She played in the garden and down by the brook as long as she could
see, forgetting for a while books, lute, and all the rest of her
torments. She talked to Polly Burgess across the stream, and watched
her as she milked her own little black Welsh cow, wishing all the time
that she had a cow to milk and take care of. At last she yielded to
Anne's entreaties that she would come in out of the dew and eat her
supper.
She had just settled herself comfortably at the little table which
Margery had set out in the corner, and was watching with quiet
satisfaction the toasting of the currant buns, when the door of the
kitchen was opened, and Aunt Bernard, entering quietly as usual, stood
transfixed with amazement and anger at the sight which met her eyes.
There was Lady Lucy, in the kitchen, actually leaning with both elbows
on the table, and her chin resting on her hands, watching Margery, who
was on her knees toasting the buns, and laughing and joking with old
Roger, the cow-man; while Anne had actually a whole new mould candle
lighted at her elbow, and was busily working at the open-hem ruffle!
Aunt Bernard had gone more than half her journey, when she was met by
a messenger sent to tell her that the family at Langham Hall were in
great trouble,—that the smallpox had broken out in the house, and my
lady's two daughters were down with that dreadful disease, for which in
those days no preventive was known. Of course all thought of the visit
was now out of the question, and Aunt Bernard turned homeward in no
good humour. It was destined to be a day of misfortunes; for about a
mile from home the carriage broke down, and Aunt Bernard was obliged to
walk home, in her best brocade and carriage-shoes, over a road far from
good in the best of times, and now sloppy and dirty from two or three
days' rain. It was in no placid mood, therefore, that she opened the
kitchen-door, to find her family in her absence violating almost every
rule she had ever laid down for them.
It was upon Lucy, as usual, that her wrath fell heaviest. The poor
child had never in all her sad life been so berated. Ladies in those
days were used to employ language for which in these a housemaid would
be dismissed; and when Aunt Bernard was angry there were few names too
hard to be bestowed upon Lucy. Nor was this the worst. Aunt Bernard
declared that Lucy was the true child of her mother, that foreign woman
who had deceived and ensnared her poor brother to his ruin; that her
mother had been a liar, and worse; and that Lucy was fast following in
her steps down to perdition.
As she went on, Lucy, who had seemed stunned at first, lifted up her
head and looked Mrs. Bernard steadily in the face, while her colour
rose, and her large black eyes flashed fire.
"Aunt Bernard, you are a wicked woman to speak so of my dear mother,"
said she. "Mamma was a lovely lady; and my father loved her. She is
an angel now; and when you call her bad names, it is you that are the
liar, and not she."
Aunt Bernard stood as if stunned, for a moment. Then she seized Lucy by
the arm.
"Down on your knees, this moment!" said she, sternly, and at the same
time trying to force her to kneel. "Down upon your knees, this moment,
and beg my pardon!"
"I will not!" returned Lucy, resisting with all her strength. "I will
never beg your pardon. I hate you, Aunt Bernard, with my whole heart! I
would rather live with the dogs in the parson's kennel than with you."
Aunt Bernard said no more, but, dragging Lucy out of the kitchen, and
up the stairs to a disused attic, she thrust her in by main force,
and shut the door behind her. The maids could only guess what passed
by hearing Lucy's cries and screams. Presently Aunt Bernard came
down-stairs and into the kitchen, expecting to find Anne and Margery in
a great fright She was mistaken.
"Mistress," said old Margery, rising, and standing before her with
folded arms, "is it your purpose to let that child remain all night in
that desolate chamber?"
"That is no business of yours, Margery; but, since you ask me, I
will tell you that it is my purpose to keep her a prisoner, and upon
prisoners' diet, and that of the sparest. She shall neither come out
of that room, nor shall she see other food than brown bread and water,
till she kneels to me and begs my pardon,—nor then, unless I see fit to
grant it. I will break that proud spirit, or I will know why. Nay, I
will not hear a word," she added, sternly, as she saw Margery preparing
to speak. "You and Anne will find you have done the child little good
with your coddlings and cossetings."
"Then, madam," said the old woman, not without dignity, "you will
please suit yourself with another cook. I have served you for many a
year, and did not think to leave you during my life; but I will never
stay under a roof where an orphan child is so treated. The day after
to-morrow is quarter-day: so you will please suit yourself with a cook."
"And with a housemaid also, mistress," said Anne. "'Tis well known that
an orphan's curse will bring destruction upon the proudest house; and
I, for one, have no wish to abide it. Every one knows how the lightning
struck Farmer Dobson's stacks and barns after he turned his wife's poor
daughter out of doors, and what happened to the uncle of the Babes in
the Wood."
Anne spoke according to the superstitions of the time; nor was Mrs.
Bernard's mind so free from it that a shudder did not pass over her
at the girl's bold words. But she was proud and obstinate,—firm and
dignified she called herself. Her own conscience told her that she was
cruel and unforgiving,—that she visiting on Lucy's head not so much the
child's fault as her own vexation. But she would not listen. Her evil
passions were aroused, and had become her masters.
"You must do as you please," said she, coldly. "I shall doubtless
find other servants in your place easier than you will find other
services,—especially at your age, Margery."
"I can't help that," said Anne, tossing her head. "Better a crust in
quietness than a full dish under the curse of the orphan."
Two or three days passed on, and nothing was seen of Lucy. She remained
shut up in her attic chamber, visited by her aunt or Hannah once a day,
with scanty and coarse provisions. Sometimes the girls, listening,
heard her sobbing as if her heart would break, sometimes moaning
faintly; but Mrs. Bernard kept close watch, and they could not get near
her.
"I can't stand this any longer," said Anne to Margery, the third day.
"The child will die before she will give way, and her blood will be on
all our heads. I shall go to Parson Burgess and tell him the story. He
is justice as well as parson; and we will see if something cannot be
done." *
* In England, the rector, or minister, of a parish is not unfrequently
a justice also.
"Do," said Margery. "No one can tell whether it will do any good; but
things must not go on as they are. I know my mistress's temper but too
well. It was just such a time as this with Lady Lucy which drove my
poor young master to sea, where he perished miserably."
It was not long before Anne was at the parson's gate, where she found
the children all assembled, some admiring and feeding with grass the
two beautiful horses which stood before the door, some watching half
timidly the negro servant who held them, and who was trying to coax
the youngest little girl to come to him. Anne's tale was soon told to
Polly, who, as the eldest, was exercising a sort of supervision over
the little ones.
"What a shame!" exclaimed the warm-hearted girl, as Anne concluded her
tale, which lost nothing from her manner of telling it. "Oh, if my
father were only alone! There is a great gentleman with him, who came
just now; and we must not interrupt him."
"Tell mother," said Dulcie, the second girl: "mother will know what to
do. And here she comes now."
Mistress Burgess listened to Anne's repetition of the sad tale.
"Isn't it a shame, mother?" exclaimed the girls. "Poor little Lady
Lucy!"
"Are you sure you are telling the truth, my girl?" asked Mistress
Burgess, bending her mild, penetrating eyes on Anne's face, and hushing
with an upraised finger the clamours of the children. "Recollect
yourself; for this is a matter of the last importance, and you are come
in the nick of time. The gentleman who arrived this morning is Lady
Lucy's father."
"Why, mamma, I thought he was dead long ago!"
"And so thought every one; but it turns out a mistake. He was wounded
and left for dead, and only recovered to find himself in a French
prison, where he has languished all these years till just now that he
has been exchanged; not by his own title,—for as Lord Stanton, he had
been condemned to death, and had only saved his life by taking the name
of his servant, who died in his cell. He has known naught of his own
family,—not even that his poor wife was dead."
Anne was not a little daunted when she found herself in presence of the
parson and his guest, the tall, stately soldier. But she was a girl
of spirit, and confident in the goodness of her cause; and she told a
simple, straight-forward story, from which all the cross-questioning of
Dr. Burgess and Lord Stanton did not cause her to vary an inch.
"I thank you, my girl," said Lord Stanton, at last. "I shall not forget
your services and, meantime, here is a token for you," (putting a gold
piece in her hand). "You will please say nothing of this at the Grange
till I come. I wish to see the state of things for myself, and will
follow you directly."
"And a nice surprise it will be for my mistress," thought Anne, as she
curtsied, and retired, well pleased with her day's work. "I am sure I
will say nothing to spoil it."
"Do you think this girl's tale can be true?" asked Lord Stanton. "I
know my sister Bernard for a hard, stern woman, who would have been my
last choice for a guardian; but this seems beyond belief."
"Her cousin, Sir James Warden, doubtless acted for the best," said
Dr. Burgess. "Mrs. Bernard has ever been counted an honourable woman,
though somewhat stern and severe, especially with children. I have
often pitied Lady Lucy, and would willingly have made her acquaintance,
that she might amuse herself with companions of her own age; but
her aunt has repelled all our advances. It may be that my good wife
and myself have erred is the opposite direction, and allowed too
much liberty to our young flock. I know that Mrs. Bernard is of that
opinion,—which probably is one reason that she will not allow Lady Lucy
to play with my girls, but I cannot think children spoiled who mind
their mother with a word or look, and come to their parents with all
their little secrets and confessions as freely as our young ones."
"Truly I should say not," returned Lord Stanton. "But I am impatient to
see my poor little daughter. May I so far trespass upon your kindness
as to ask Mrs. Burgess to take charge of her for a day or two till I
can make arrangements for keeping her at home?"
"Surely, surely, my lord,—if she can live as we do. I will mention the
matter to my wife."
Poor Lucy, on her hard bed, had fallen into an uneasy slumber, while
her bread and water stood almost untouched upon the table. The three
days of confinement and harsh treatment had made a great change in her
appearance. She was thinner and paler, with dark purple marks under her
eyes; and the scarlet traces of the blows she had received still showed
plainly upon her thin white neck and arms. She had seen from the window
her aunt go out for a walk, as usual, in the cool of the day, and had
waited, watching and hoping that Anne or Margery would find a chance to
speak to her through the key-hole, if no more. But no one came, and she
had cried herself to sleep.
She was suddenly awakened by the sound of several voices upon the
stairs. She distinguished Anne's, and then Hannah's, and then a stern,
manly voice, which said,—
"If you do not open the door without delay, I will break it in. I will
not be kept from my child."
Then the door was unlocked, and she saw Anne and Margery, Hannah,
looking frightened and angry, and a tall, richly-dressed gentleman,
whom she seemed directly to remember, and who caught her in his arms,
calling her his darling, his poor, motherless, abused child.
"Are you really my father,—my own father who was dead?" she asked, at
last, and leaning back to look at him.
"I am your own father, child, counted dead for so many years."
"And is mamma come alive again too?"
Lucy felt herself drawn into a closer embrace as her father whispered,—
"No, dear child: your precious mother cannot come again; but we shall
go to her."
"And will you take me away and let me live with you?" asked Lucy. "Oh,
papa, I will try to be so very good, if you will!"
"Yes, Lucy: you shall go with me this very night. Mistress Burgess will
receive you."
"The child must not be removed till my mistress returns," said Hannah,
tartly. "Her guardian put her in my mistress's care; and to him she is
answerable,—not to a stranger."
Lord Stanton rose.
"She shall be removed without one moment's delay," said he, firmly.
"I am her father. Let some one—you, my girl—" as he saw Anne—"bring
something in which to wrap her. I will answer to my sister for what I
do. Whether she can answer to me, is another matter."
Mrs. Bernard, returning from her walk, saw the servants and horses
standing at Dr. Burgess's door; but she thought nothing of it, except
to wonder what grand visitor had come to the parson's. Her meditations
had not been very pleasant. She was beginning to get over her fit of
anger, and to listen to two counsellors,—conscience and interest; and
from neither of them did she obtain a great deal of comfort.
Conscience told her that she had given way to passion; that she had
been harsh and cruel to a helpless child; that she had failed in her
trust, and had roused, in the usually timid and yielding girl, pride
and obstinacy equal to her own.
Interest told her that she had made an enemy of Lucy; that she had
failed to win the child's affection or confidence; that she had no hold
upon her but sheer physical force. Sir James Warden, Lucy's cousin and
guardian, might see fit to remove her at any time; and no doubt Lucy
would look upon change as for the better. The child herself would be
no great loss; but with her would go the three hundred pounds a year
allowed for her guardianship, and with that the carriage, the extra
servants, perhaps the very house in which she lived and which belonged
to the Stanton-Corbet estate.
She had no claim upon the property save what grew out of her care of
Lucy. She was the daughter of Lord Stanton's step-mother, and had been
brought up with him: that was all the relationship. It would have been
the part of wisdom, interest told her, to have acquired such a hold
upon the little girl's regards as would have given her a lifelong
influence over the young heiress. Instead of that, she had allowed her
hatred of her step-brother's foreign wife to cause her to tyrannize
over his daughter.
Lucy had never loved her, and she had long since lost even the slight
hold upon her respect which she had once possessed. It was probably
too late to mend matters now, even if her pride would have allowed her
to stoop to a child; but Mrs. Bernard resolved that Lucy should be
forgiven and released as if she had actually begged pardon, and that
henceforth she would allow her more liberty.
In this frame of mind she came home, to be met by the news that Lucy's
father had returned and carried her away, leaving a note to explain his
proceedings. What this note contained no one ever knew.
Mrs. Bernard read it and crushed it up in her hand without any remark.
Then she bade Hannah pack Lady Lucy's clothes and other possessions and
send them to the parsonage. She had all but idolized her step-brother,
and had shed many tears for his loss; but she took no steps to see him,
nor did she ever again mention his name. She continued for many years
living in the same house, seeing no company, never going out even to
church, and refusing to speak to any member of Dr. Burgess's family if
by any chance she met them.
She had indulged pride and self-will till they had become absorbing
passions over which she exerted no control. Some time after, Lady Lucy
made more than one effort to see and conciliate her aunt; but Mrs.
Bernard sternly repelled all her advances, and lived and died alone.
Meantime, Lady Lucy was most warmly received at the parsonage,
installed in the best room, and treated with all the care and kindness
which Mrs. Burgess and her daughters had to bestow, till her father
came to carry her home to Stanton Court, where he had engaged an
elderly lady—a cousin of his mother—to take care of her. Lord Stanton
stayed a few days with Lucy, and then went abroad once more, leaving
his daughter to the care of Cousin Deborah Corbet.
CHAPTER II.
LUCY had been about five weeks under the charge of Cousin Deborah at
the time our story begins,—weeks so quiet and happy, so free from care
and fault-finding, that the little girl sometimes wondered whether she
were living in the same world. Nothing seemed the same about her but
Anne, who had come from the Grange to live at Stanton Court and attend
upon Lady Lucy.
Cousin Deborah, for her part, would have preferred to do without Anne.
She foresaw that Lucy would have formed undesirable and wrong habits
under such a rule as that of Aunt Bernard, and she thought it would be
more easy to break up these habits if the little girl had no one about
her but such persons as she knew and could trust. But Anne's services
had been too important to go unrewarded: she had lost her place from
her devotion to Lady Lucy's interests, and she was devotedly attached
to the child: so Cousin Deborah resolved to make the best of it.
It may easily be guessed that Anne was not at all unwilling to
accompany Lady Lucy, or to exchange the close housekeeping of the
Grange for the liberality of Stanton Court. Margery might have come,
too, and both Lady Lucy and Anne begged her to do so; but Margery
refused.
"I am not going to leave my old mistress, now that she is in trouble
and disgrace," said she. "I shall stay and stand by her. She will
find it hard to suit herself, with all these stories flying about the
country. She is growing infirm in body and, I believe, in mind; and I
will not leave her with no one about her whom she can trust but Hannah."
The stories to which Margery referred were exaggerated and distorted
accounts of her mistress's treatment of Lady Lucy. The maids at the
parsonage had gossiped, of course, as well as the milkmaid at the
Grange. Every one in the village knew that Lady Lucy's father had found
his daughter locked in an upper room alone, with nothing to eat but
a crust of brown bread,—some said, not even that,—and had taken her
away without seeing his sister or waiting for his child's clothes to
be packed up. This was a fine nucleus for the story, which grew, like
a snowball, every time it was turned over, till many people actually
believed that Mrs. Bernard had gone deliberately to work to kill her
niece by cruelty, that she might have the use of her property.
"I am sure it is no more than she deserves," said Anne, tossing her
head.
"Perhaps so; but, Anne, if we come to talk of deserts, where should any
of us be?"
"She has got Hannah," said Anne.
"Yes; and that is another reason for my staying. I don't trust Hannah.
No, Anne: I love Lady Lucy, but I shall not leave Mrs. Bernard. Her
husband was kind to mine when he needed kindness; her son was my
foster-child, and dear to me as my own; and, for their sakes as well as
hers, I shall stay."
And so Margery stayed; and, when Hannah left, she became in time the
sole servant in the lonely, deserted Grange House, where Mrs. Bernard
wore her life away in bitter recollections, with nothing to sustain her
but her own pride and resentment.
Lucy had learned no lessons, nor performed any tasks, as she was
accustomed to call them, since she came to Stanton Court. She had
suffered greatly in health under Aunt Bernard's discipline, and
especially under the last shock. She was timid, nervous, and depressed,
afraid to speak, afraid to make a natural motion in presence of her
elders, unable to imagine that any one could be kind to her or love her
except Anne. She slept badly, and awoke feverish and without appetite;
she was very soon tired with any exertion; and she had all the time a
little, hard cough.
Cousin Debby was used to children. She had brought up six girls of her
own, all of whom she had nursed through a somewhat delicate and sickly
childhood, to be women of at least average health and strength. She saw
that of lessons Lucy had lately had more than enough; and she wisely
concluded that Lucy's health and spirits were to be cultivated, even at
the expense of her present improvement in knowledge.
"A great many women get through the world pretty well without knowing
much either of books or music," said she to her cousin, Lord Stanton;
"but weak backs and nerves, and fits of vapours and hysterics, unfit a
woman for any usefulness whatever. The child has been overworked, and
needs rest."
And Lord Stanton had agreed with Cousin Deborah, and had bid her take
her own course with Lucy. So, for the first few weeks, Lucy did little
but run about the garden and grounds, and take rides on the donkey,
with Cousin Debby walking by her side. But this morning Cousin Debby
had decided she should begin some lessons again. So Lucy had learned a
spelling-lesson, and practised on her lute for half an hour, and was
now to do her task of sewing.
"What sort of work have you done most of?" asked Cousin Debby.
"Embroidery, and open-hem, and marking, and fine darning," said Lucy;
"and oh, Cousin Debby, how I hate them all!"
Lucy looked scared as soon as she had said the words. Such a speech
made in Aunt Bernard's hearing would have insured her an hour's
additional work, if not a slap from the fan handle across her fingers;
but Cousin Debby only smiled. She was glad to see that Lucy was
beginning to feel a little freedom with her.
"Suppose, then, we try something else," said she. "The poor woman who
lives at the porter's lodge has a pair of twins, born this morning; and
she is but poorly provided with clothes for them. Suppose I cut out a
flannel petticoat for one of them and show you how to make it?"
"I shall like that," said Lucy. "Dolly Burgess used to do things for
poor people, I know. And please, cousin, do you think I might carry it
to her myself? I should so like to see a little baby near by."
"You shall carry it to the baby yourself certainly," said Cousin Debby,
smiling; "and you shall go with me this afternoon, when your sewing is
done, to take the poor woman some broth which cook is making for her.
So now be industrious, and see how much you will accomplish while I am
gone. Have you a work-box of your own?"
"No, cousin: I kept my working-things in a corner of Aunt Bernard's
table-drawer."
Cousin Debby took a bunch of keys from the little basket of keys which
hung at her side, and, opening a tall cabinet which stood at one side
of the fireplace, she took out a beautiful box. The sides were formed
of ivory, inlaid with many curious figures in a black wood, which
Cousin Debby told Lucy was ebony. She set the box on the little table
in the bow-window where Lucy was sitting, and unlocked it by the little
gold key which hung to the handle.
Lucy uttered an exclamation of delight. There were scissors and knives
of various kinds, with gold and enamelled handles; there were bobbins,
tooth-picks, and stilettos, and more other implements than you can
mention, all ornamented in the same way, and a beautiful little crystal
bottle of attar of roses, which still retained its perfume.
"This was your dear mother's work-box," said Cousin Debby; "and some
day it shall be yours."
"When?" asked Lucy.
"When I see whether you are careful enough to be trusted with such
valuable things," answered Cousin Debby. "You may keep it here upon the
table, if you please, and lay your own thimble and scissors in this
vacant place. I suppose your mother's thimble will be too large for
you. Try it on."
Lucy slipped her finger into it.
"It is too large but I can wear it," said she. "Please let me use it
this morning, Cousin Debby."
"No, not this morning. You might lose it; and, besides, there is a hole
in it, which needs mending. I will send it to Exeter, when I can, and
have it repaired and made a little smaller. Now go at your work; and if
you have finished it by the time I come down, we will go to the lodge
and see the little twins."
"What are you going to do, Cousin Debby?"
"I am going into the green chamber, to look over some drawers."
Left to herself, Lucy worked very industriously for half an hour. She
kept the work-box open before her, and now and then she glanced at the
contents. But Lucy was not used to working without being over-looked;
and she had never been trusted in all her life.
Presently she dropped her work in her lap, and began to take out the
articles in the work-box one by one and lay them upon the table.
At last she put on the thimble and began sewing with it. She took a
few stitches with great satisfaction,—when all at once the eye of
the needle found out the hole in the top of the thimble, and entered
pretty deeply under Lucy's finger-nail. Now, there are few things more
provocative of hasty action than a prick under the nails. Lucy dropped
her work and gave her hand a sudden shake,—when off flew the thimble
through the long window which opened to the terrace.
At the same moment she heard Cousin Debby coming down-stairs, stopping
on the landing to talk with the housemaid. Hastily restoring the other
articles to their places, Lucy peeped out to see what had become of the
thimble. There it lay, just under one of the low flower-vases which
adorned the terrace, half hidden under a broad-leaved plant which grew
there. Lucy could see it plainly, and was just going to step out of the
window to recover it, when Cousin Debby came out at the hall door and
along towards the bow-window.
Hastily Lucy shrank back, and resumed her work, her fingers trembling
and her heart sick with fear. Cousin Debby would no doubt see the
thimble, and then all would be over.
"Well, Lucy, how has the work progressed?" asked Cousin Debby, pausing
before the open window.
"Not very well," said Lucy, trying to speak quietly. "I pricked my
finger, and I had to stop and wait for it to be done bleeding."
"Let me see," said Cousin Debby. "Why, that is a deep prick! You
had better not sew any more just now, lest it should inflame and be
troublesome. Run and get your hood, and we will walk down to the lodge."
Lucy's heart sank deeper still; but she dared not disobey. The best way
would have been to tell the plain truth and pick up the thimble openly;
but this she dared not do. She had been so severely treated for the
least fault, that she had learned the habit of concealing every thing.
She went up-stairs and put on her hood, expecting all the time to hear
her name sharply called and feel her poor little fingers and arms
tingle and burn from the application of a whalebone or ratan. Nothing
of the sort happened, however.
When she came down, Cousin Debby was standing talking with the old
gardener about some plants.
"You will be sure and remember, Robbins?" said she.
"Yes, madam,—oh, yes: I never forgets any thing," said Robbins.
"I dare say he will never think of it again," said Cousin Debby, as
they walked away. "The poor old man grows more and more forgetful every
day."
Lucy had a pleasant walk, and enjoyed very much seeing the dear little
babies and holding one of them in her arms. The good woman lamented her
want of baby-clothes; and Cousin Debby promised to see what she could
find for them.
"You did not tell her that I was making a petticoat for the baby," Lucy
ventured to observe, as they left the lodge to return home.
"No," replied Cousin Debby: "I thought it better to wait till the
petticoat was finished. Something might happen to prevent your sewing,
or you might be wanting in perseverance and then the poor woman would
be disappointed. Do you know the meaning of 'perseverance'?"
"No, ma'am."
"Why do you not ask, then?"
"Aunt Bernard would never let me ask questions," replied Lucy. "She
said it was not proper."
"There are times when it is not proper for little girls to ask
questions," said Cousin Debby,—"as, for instance, in company, or when
they interrupt their elders by so doing. But, Lucy, I want you always
to feel free to ask me any questions you please when we are alone
together. I may not always see fit to answer you; but I shall never be
displeased at your asking, so that you do it in a proper spirit."
"What do you mean by a proper spirit?" Lucy ventured to inquire.
"Perhaps I can illustrate the matter best by telling you what is not a
proper spirit. If I should tell you it was time to go to bed, and you
should ask, in a fretful tone, 'Why must I go to bed now? Why cannot
I sit up as long as you do?' That would be an improper spirit. But if
you should obey directly, and should then ask, 'Why must little girls
go to bed earlier than grown-up people?' because you wished to know the
reason, I should then be ready to tell you all I know about the matter.
"Sometimes children ask impertinent questions,—as if you were to see
me reading a letter and should ask whom it was from. Sometimes, too,
they ask silly and troublesome questions, just to hear themselves
talk,—which is a very disagreeable habit.
"Your asking the meaning of the word 'perseverance' would be a proper
question; and I am very glad to answer it. To persevere in any thing
you undertake to do is to keep at it till it is finished. If you work
steadily at the baby's petticoat at all proper times till it is done,
you will persevere. Now do you understand?"
"Yes, ma'am," replied Lucy. "I think it is pleasant to understand."
All this time the thought of the thimble was in Lucy's mind, lying
under all her other thoughts, as a stone lies under a running stream.
It did not make her so unhappy as it ought to have done; for,
unluckily, Lucy was used to having such concealments and to hiding her
faults as long as possible. She was not miserable at the thought that
she had disobeyed and deceived her cousin: she only thought how she
would be punished if the thimble were lost.
Aunt Bernard had never taught her to exercise her conscience—to do
things because they were right, or refrain from them because they were
wrong. But she felt in a great hurry to get back to the Hall, in order
that she might find the thimble and restore it to its place before it
was missed.
She was, therefore, not very well pleased when Cousin Debby said that,
as the day was cool, they would walk to the village and call upon the
rector's family, adding, "You will be glad to see Polly and Dulcie
again; and, as little Willy Mattison is here, we will send him to bring
down the donkey, that you may ride back."
Lucy would much rather have gone home; but she dared not object. She
could not see any way to help herself: so she put the thought of the
thimble as far away as she could, and resolved to make the best of
matters.
The village church and parsonage lay about a mile from Stanton Court,
and the walk to it was a lovely one,—through the woods, and along the
banks of that very stream by which Lucy had stolen away to feed the
swans. Now and then they passed a tiny waterfall; and more than once a
lovely little spring came dripping down the rock, and collected in a
little basin before it ran into the brook. On a stone by one of these
springs sat a square wooden cup, roughly hewn out of a piece of hard
wood; and here they stopped to drink. Cousin Debby knew the names of
many of the plants, and the ways and habits of the birds and insects,
and she told Lucy many interesting tales of their doings and customs.
It would have been a very delightful walk if it had not been for that
unlucky thimble and, even as it was, Lucy enjoyed it greatly, as well
as the visit which followed.
Polly and Dulcie were strong, healthy, high-spirited girls, and, with
their warm hearts and truthful ways, were as good companions as could
be found for the poor, crushed, reserved little lady. So Cousin Debby
thought; and she resolved to encourage a friendship between them. They
gave Lucy a warm welcome, and did their best to entertain her,—showing
her their gardens, the grotto which they were ornamenting with
shell-work after the fashion of the time, and finally took her into the
meadow, to show her Polly's little hornless cow, which was as tame and
almost as playful as a kitten. Lucy looked across the stream into her
aunt's garden, and up at the house where she had spent so many dreary
hours, with a feeling of wonder.
"There is Mrs. Bernard now, walking on the green," said Polly. "Poor
lady, how lonely she must be! I can't help feeling sorry for her, after
all."
"I don't feel sorry for her," said Lucy, under her breath. "I hate her;
and I should like to see her served just as she served me."
Lucy said these words with all energy which showed that she was
thoroughly in earnest, and which made the gentle little Dulcie look up
with surprise and horror.
"Oh, Lady Lucy, you should not feel so! It is not right. If she has
treated you ever so bad, you ought to forgive her."
"Aunt Bernard never forgave me or anybody," returned Lucy. "She said
once that she never forgave or forgot; and I have heard Margery say
that she would never answer her own son's letter, when he wrote begging
her pardon for running away to sea."
"Then she is a wicked woman, and you should not try to be like her,"
said plain-spoken Polly.
"Aunt Bernard said God hated sinners," persisted Lucy. "She said he
hated me."
"I don't believe that," said Polly. "I mean to ask my father. Anyway,
Lady Lucy, it was not much like hating you when God brought back your
father from the prison and gave you such a nice home and such a nice
lady to take care of you."
Lucy looked puzzled. "Did he do that? I never thought of that."
"Of course he did. He gives us all things. That is the reason we call
him our Father, I suppose."
"I never thought of that," said Lucy, again. "I thought he was like a
great king, who sat up in heaven and did not care what happened, only
to punish people when they do wrong. I never thought of his being any
thing like my father."
"You ought to think so; and you ought to love him, too," said Polly.
"The catechism says our duty towards God is to love him with all our
might; and it is in the Bible, too. And I am sure you ought to forgive
Mrs. Bernard."
"I can't," returned Lucy. "You don't know how she treated me, Polly."
"I know she was shamefully cruel to you; but, Lady Lucy," added Polly,
reverently, "you know she could not treat you so ill as our Lord was
treated; and he forgave all his enemies, even on the cross. And,
besides, you know God will not forgive you unless you forgive your
aunt."
"It don't seem as if I could," said Lucy; and she looked again at
the stately figure of Aunt Bernard, as she passed and repassed the
archway in the holly hedges. "Oh, she was so hard,—so hard upon me!"
she repeated, bitterly. "She never let me be happy one minute, if she
could help it. And she abused my mamma. She called her a liar and an
outlandish witch. No, Polly: I can't. I do hate her, and I always
shall."
"But, Lady Lucy, what will become of you when you die, if you go on
so?" argued Dulcie. "You know you cannot go to heaven unless you do
forgive your enemies and are in charity with all men; and you know your
mamma is in heaven," she added, in a low voice.
"And you cannot go to heaven unless God forgives you, either," added
Polly. "You know we all do a great many wrong things, that need to be
forgiven."
Lucy thought of the thimble lying under the aloe-leaf on the terrace.
"Don't talk about it any more," said she, abruptly. "See, there is your
mother calling us. I dare say Cousin Debby is ready to go home."
But Cousin Debby was not quite ready. Mrs. Burgess, in her hospitable
kindness, would by no means allow them to depart without refreshment.
The table was most invitingly set out in the great, cool parlour,—the
parsonage had no other rooms below than the parlour and kitchen, and a
room behind, which served the doctor for a study,—and Cousin Deborah
and Lady Lucy must eat curds and cream and apricots and seed-cake and
drink each a glass of gooseberry wine.
While they were chatting around the table, a shower came up, and Cousin
Deborah concluded to wait until it was over. The weather partly cleared
up towards evening, and they set out for home. But, before they reached
Stanton Court, the rain poured down again, and they arrived at home wet
to the skin.
Anne hurried Lucy off to bed, dosing her with warm gruel, lest she
should take cold: so, of course, all chance of searching for the
thimble was out of the question.
The next morning, before her cousin was dressed, Lucy ran down-stairs
and out upon the terrace. Breathlessly she hurried to the flower-pots
opposite the bow-window, and lifted the broad leaves one after the
other.
The thimble was not there.
She stood bewildered for a moment, when it suddenly flashed across her
mind that some one might have found it and put it away.
She hurried to the parlour. No: it was not in the box. It was lost!
CHAPTER III.
"WHAT are you doing with the box, Lucy, my dear?" asked Cousin Debby,
opening the door.
"I—I was looking to see whether I put my thimble away." Lucy had given
a guilty start, and stammered so, as she spoke, that any other child
would have been at once suspected of lying.
But she was always so timid and frightened that Cousin Debby did not
think of any thing being the matter, except that Lucy had been in doubt
about her thimble.
"Did you think you had lost it, then?" she asked.
"I could not be sure. I did not remember," said Lucy, stammering more
and more. "Please, Cousin Deborah, do not be angry with me."
"You poor little dear, how scared you are! You are all in a tremble,
and your little face is as white as your kerchief," said Cousin
Deborah, sitting down, and taking Lucy on her knee. "Lucy, my child, I
do not wish you ever to be afraid of me, even if you have done wrong.
Try to have confidence in me and think that I am your friend."
Lucy did not answer.
And Cousin Deborah, seeing that she still trembled, thought best to
divert her from her fright.
"See here, my love, your stay-lacing is not fastened, nor your shoes
properly buckled. Your cap and kerchief, too, are soiled, and need
changing; nor do I think these little finger-ends have seen the water
this morning. Did Anne dress you?"
"No, Cousin Debby: I dressed myself. I did not think it was any harm,"
said poor Lucy, who was so used to being blamed, whatever she did, that
she was by no means sure she had not committed a grave offense in being
her own dressing-maid.
"There is no harm in that, my child. I am glad to have you learn to do
every thing for yourself; but you must be neat and careful about it,
and try always to look like a lady. I suppose, however, you were in a
great hurry to find your thimble: so I will excuse you this time. Now
go back to your room and make yourself neat, and then we will have
prayers."
As Lucy went back to her room, she was conscious of a new feeling in
regard to what she had done. She had often before been terrified at the
consequences of wrong-doing; but of the action itself she had thought
very little. But now, as she thought of having disobeyed and deceived
kind Cousin Deborah, she felt sorry for and ashamed of her sin, as well
as alarmed for the punishment she expected to receive whenever the
thimble should be missed. And she felt that she should continue to be
sorry, even if she were never punished at all.
"Oh, if I could only find it," she thought, "I would never, never be so
naughty again."
She made herself as neat as she could, and was just finishing her
dressing operations, when Anne entered.
"So, my lady, you are grown an early riser, and very independent, to
be sure," said she, not very well pleased. "How long since you were so
grand?"
"Why, Anne, you know I always dressed myself at Aunt Bernard's. And
Cousin Debby says it is a very good thing. But I was in such a hurry
this morning that I forgot to wash my hands or buckle my shoes; and
Cousin Debby sent me back. Please get me a clean cap, Anne."
"Ay, you need one. See how you have tumbled your ruffles by throwing
your cap down anyhow, instead of setting it tidily on the top of a
chair-post, or some such place. What would Mrs. Bernard say to that,
think you?"
"She would box my ears, I suppose," said Lucy: "so I am very glad she
is not here. Don't be cross, please, Anne. I do like you to dress me;
but, you know, I must do as Cousin Debby says."
"Of course you must," replied Anne, in a mollified tone,—"and all the
more that she is so good to you. But I can tell you, Lady Lucy, she
can be cruel strict, too. You ought to hear how she talked to Jenny
housemaid because she told her a fib about the linen. She made her cry,
I promise you; and she said she could put up with any thing better than
a lie: so you must be careful, Lady Lucy. But, goodness gracious me,
child! What is the matter, that you turn so pale?"
"Oh, Anne, I have done such a dreadful thing!" said poor Lucy. "And I
have told Cousin Debby a lie, too! Oh, what shall I do?"
"Tell me all about it," said Anne. "I will put a clean tucker in your
bodice, meantime."
Lucy related the story, with many injunctions not to tell.
Anne listened attentively, and shook her head when it was finished.
"'Tis a bad business," said she. "I am much afraid you will never see
the thimble again. There was a tramper woman here yesterday, with
her child on her back; and she went along the whole length of the
terrace,—the impudent beggar! Nothing less would serve her; and I doubt
she has seen the thimble and picked it up. You see, if old Robbins
had found it, he would have brought it back: he would as soon cut his
head off as steal, would Robbins. But it won't do to ask him about it;
because that would let out the secret."
"Then, what shall I do?" asked Lucy, in a despairing tone. "As soon as
ever I come to do my task of sewing, the thimble will be missed."
"Hark! There is Mrs. Corbet calling you," said Anne. "Go down
now,—there's a dear,—and I will think the matter over and see what can
be done."
"You have been a long time," said Cousin Deborah. "What hindered you?"
"Anne had to sew a new tucker in my bodice," said Lucy.
"Anne must learn to have your things ready beforehand. But never mind,
now. Come and read the psalm."
It was rather hard for Lucy to bring her mind to the task, but she did
really wish to please Cousin Deborah: so she took pains, and succeeded
tolerably well.
Cousin Deborah went back and repeated one of the last verses:—
"'If I regard wickedness in my heart, the Lord will not hear me,'"
said she.
"Do you know what that means, Lucy?"
Lucy had never been much accustomed to think about what she read, and
she had no answer ready.
"Let us see if we cannot find a meaning in it," said Cousin Deborah.
"How can any one regard wickedness in his heart?"
"By wanting to do what is wrong, I suppose," replied Lucy, after some
thought.
"Yes,—by wishing and intending to do what is wrong. If you were to
pray to God for his blessing, while all the time you were wishing and
meaning to do something wicked, God would not regard your prayer. You
would not have any right to expect it. It would be no reason for his
not hearing you, that you had already done even a very wicked thing,
if you were truly sorry for your wickedness and asked your Father in
heaven to forgive you for his dear Son's sake. But if you meant to do
the same thing right over again as soon as you had a chance, you could
not expect him to hear you. You know he sees all your thoughts and
feelings, whether you speak them out or not. I can only guess, at the
best, what you are thinking about; but the Lord knows the very thoughts
of all our hearts."
These words, as you may suppose were any thing but comfortable to poor
Lucy. She had heard enough of God before,—and more than enough; for
Aunt Bernard used to frighten her, many a time, by telling her that he
was angry with her and would destroy her. But Cousin Debby spoke in
a very different way,—as if she feared him and loved him too. Polly
Burgess, too, spoke of loving him, and said he was like her own father,
only a great deal better and kinder. He had delivered her dear papa
from the French prison and brought him safely home to her, and had
given her dear, good Cousin Debby to take care of her,—so Polly said.
And she prayed with Cousin Debby every morning and night that God would
take care of papa in the war and bring him safe home again.
But, if what Cousin Debby said was true, what was the use of her
praying? She had told several lies about the thimble; and she knew she
meant to tell another and a worse one. She had planned to tell Cousin
Debby that the window was left open and the box unlocked, and that the
beggar-woman must have come in and stolen the thimble.
"But I will not say a word about it, unless she asks me; and, anyway,
I dare say she did take the thimble from the terrace: so that will be
partly true. And I will be just as good as I can be about every thing
else, and I will never tell a lie again after this time."
So Lucy resolved; but, somehow, the resolution did not seem to afford
her much comfort. She did her lessons unusually well, and received
great commendation; but Cousin Debby's praises did not give her the
same pleasure that they had done yesterday. Her mind was beginning to
open to the sense of right and wrong, and she felt that she did not
deserve them.
Then came the sewing; and Lucy's heart sank as Cousin Debby opened the
work-box.
Strangely enough, however, she did not appear to miss the thimble,
although the little satin-lined compartment where it belonged was
plainly empty.
"Now let me see how diligent you can be," said she, as she unfolded the
little petticoat. "You have done this very neatly, Lucy,—as well as I
could have done it myself. Aunt Bernard must have taken great pains
with your needlework. There are very few girls of your age who can work
so neatly. You see you have at least one thing for which to thank her."
Lucy did not feel so very grateful at that moment; but she agreed to
all Cousin Debby said, and took up her work, resolved to do her very
best. She hoped Cousin Debby would go away and leave her to herself, as
she did yesterday.
But, instead of doing so, she sat down in the bow-window and occupied
herself in darning some beautiful old lace. She told Lucy this lace
had belonged to her grandmother and should some day be hers; and she
related many interesting anecdotes of this same grandmother, and
of other ladies, members of the Stanton and Corbet families, whose
portraits hung in the long picture-gallery up-stairs.
In spite of her trouble of mind, Lucy could not help being interested
in these tales. And she was surprised, when the clock struck eleven, to
find that she had come to the end of her work.
"See, Cousin Deborah: is not this finished?" she asked, as she held it
up for inspection.
"It is finished, and very nicely, too," replied Cousin Deborah, taking
the little garment out of her hand and looking it over. "I have found
several other articles which will be useful to the poor woman. And
after dinner, if it is fine, you shall go with Anne and carry them to
her; afterwards you may ride as far as the village shop and buy me some
needles and tape. Now go and play a little; and, when you hear the
clock strike the half-hour, come in and get ready for dinner."
"Where are you going, Cousin Deborah?" Lucy ventured to ask, as she saw
her cousin putting up her own work.
"I am going to my room for a while. Now run away and play."
Lucy was glad to hear that her cousin was going to her room. It was
upon the other side of the house, and quite away from the terrace. And
Lucy resolved that she would improve the opportunity and spend the
half-hour in one more hunt for the thimble.
But in vain did she search under the leaves of the broad-leaved aloe,
scratching her hands sadly with the sharp thorns. Her thimble was
clearly not there.
"How did you scratch your hands so, my dear?" asked Cousin Deborah,
when Lucy came down to dinner.
"I was looking at a bird's nest in the holly-bush, Cousin Debby,"
replied Lucy, in a low voice.
"You are quite sure you have not been at the gooseberry-bushes, Lucy?"
"Yes, ma'am. I have not been near them." Lucy was telling the truth
this time, and spoke in tolerably steady tones but her conscience
reproached her at the very moment, for she knew she had told another
lie, in spite of all her resolutions. The rapid multiplication of lies
has long been proverbial.
People in those days dined early: so that twelve was a fashionable
hour. It was not quite noon when Cousin Debby and Lucy sat down to
dinner.
Lucy had all her life been limited and scrimped as to her food. Aunt
Bernard's housekeeping was far from liberal, at the best. True, she had
always some sort of meat for dinner; but of this Lucy seldom got more
than a very small taste, and right glad was she to be helped to enough
of the batter-pudding, or dumpling cooked with the meat, to stay her
hunger. Of tart, pudding, or any thing of that sort, she never tasted
save by stealth when Margery or Anne would smuggle away a bit for her.
But Cousin Debby had very different notions. She helped Lucy liberally
to the excellent roast-beef, and afterwards gave her a whole custard.
Nor did she season these dainties with constant reproofs, or count
every mouthful and accuse the child of gluttony because she had a good
appetite. On the contrary, she smiled to see Lucy's plate emptied the
second time, and said she was glad to see her enjoy her dinner.
"Think, Lucy, who it is that has given you all these good things," said
Cousin Deborah, "and then your returning thanks will not be mere empty,
formal words."
As Lucy stood up and repeated her "grace after meat," a good old custom
which seems to have gone quite out of fashion, she thought, "He gave me
this nice dinner, too. I do wish I could be good, when he is so good to
me!"
Often had Lucy been required to say those words when the whole
dinner-hour had been one of misery to her,—when she had nothing, as it
seemed to her, to be thankful for but sharp words, hard crusts, and
harder raps from Aunt Bernard's knife or fan handle,—when her heart was
bursting with a sense of oppression and unkindness. Then she had never
thought of their meaning, but only how to say them so that she should
not earn another red ridge upon her neck or arms.
Now she thought of their sense, and really felt thankful to God for the
nice meal and the love which seasoned it. But still that verse recurred
to her mind:
"'If I regard wickedness in my heart, the Lord will not hear me.'"
"Now you may read to me a while; and after that, you and Anne can set
out upon your expedition. I believe I will not go out to-day."
"Don't you feel well, Cousin Deborah?" asked Lucy.
"Yes, my dear; but I am somewhat tired. I am an old woman, you know,
and cannot run about all day without being fatigued, as you young folks
do."
"Are you really old, Cousin Debby?" asked Lucy, timidly.
"Yes, my dear: I am past sixty years old. I can just remember the day
when King Charles the First was put to death; and I shall never forget
the day that his son, Charles the Second, entered London after his
restoration. I saw the long procession, and all the shows, and the
feasts and bonfires in the streets. And I well remember the dreadful
days of the great plague: though we did not live in London then, but
some miles distant."
"Please, Cousin Deborah, I wish you would tell me some stories about
those times," Lucy ventured to say. "It is so much nicer than reading
them out of the history books."
"Well," said Cousin Deborah, smiling, "you certainly pay me a high
compliment."
"It was not a compliment," said Lucy. "It was true."
"Compliments may be true as well as false, Lucy. But I will make a
bargain with you. I will tell you stories for half an hour after
dinner, provided you will work at the same time."
"Well," said Lucy, with great satisfaction. "What shall I do?"
"Suppose you begin to knit a pair of nice warm woollen stockings for
poor Dame Higgins at the almshouse, whose hands are crippled by the
rheumatism. You can easily have them ready against winter. I have
plenty of good strong worsted."
"I shall like that," said Lucy. "It is so much nicer to think that I
am working for people than just to work, work, stitch, stitch, without
ever knowing what one is working for."
"I agree with you, Lucy. But you must be faithful in fulfilling your
part of the bargain, or I shall consider myself released from mine."
The stocking was soon set up, and Lucy worked for an hour without once
looking at the clock to see what time it was, while Cousin Deborah told
her tales of the great civil war, which she had heard from her father
and mother.
"Now you may go and get ready for your ride," said Cousin Deborah. "You
will find the bundle of baby-linen upon my table, and cook Will give
you some biscuit to carry to the poor woman. After you have been at the
lodge, you may ride down to the shop and buy me a paper of needles,
and two sticks of bobbin like the bit which is tied round the bundle.
Take that for a sample; and here is sixpence, which you may spend for
yourself, if you please. I dare say you and Anne will be glad of a cake
apiece at the end of your journey."
"How good you are, Cousin Debby!" exclaimed Lucy. "You just seem to let
me do things because I like them. I do love you dearly!"
And Lucy threw her arms round her cousin's neck and kissed her
heartily. She had never yet kissed Aunt Bernard of her own accord. "Oh,
how I do wish I could be a good girl!"
"Why, I think you are a tolerably good girl, as little girls go," said
Cousin Deborah, returning the kiss, "though doubtless there is much
room for improvement still. I find that the case with myself; and I
have been trying to be a good girl a much longer time than you have.
But, Lucy," she added, seriously, detaining the little girl a moment,
"if you really wish to be good, you must ask the help of your heavenly
Father to make you so. Ask him to put his Spirit in your heart and
make you love him. That is the only way to be good and happy, in this
world or the next. Now go and take your ride, and see how many pleasant
things you will have to tell me when you come home."
"I don't believe any one in the world is so good as my cousin Deborah,"
said Lucy to Anne.
Lucy was mounted on her good, patient little donkey, and, with Anne at
her side, was riding down the avenue towards the lodge beside the great
gate. The old trees, of which there was a double row on each side, met
over her head; and the rooks, which had had their nests for a hundred
years and more in the great elms, were apparently giving a great deal
of good advice to their young ones in the branches. On either side
stretched the park; and Lucy could see the deer resting in the fern, or
bounding away as they approached. It was a lovely afternoon in August:
the air was full of pleasant sounds and scents; and everywhere Lucy's
eyes rested upon something beautiful.
"I do believe my cousin Deborah is the very best and kindest lady in
the whole world," repeated Lucy. "Don't you think so, Anne?"
"Well, I do not think you will find many better, my lady," replied
Anne. "This is not much like the way you were spending the afternoon
five weeks ago this very day. Do you remember how that was?"
"Why, no," said Lucy, considering. "Oh, yes: I do, indeed," she added,
shuddering. "Oh, Anne, how dreadful that was!"
"And you little thought who was coming to your rescue: did you?"
continued Anne. "I am sure my heart was in my mouth when Madam Burgess
took me into the library, and there sat the parson and that fine
gentleman in the gold-laced coat and waistcoat."
"I am sure it was very good in you, Anne," said Lucy. "I shall never
forget it. But, oh, that unlucky thimble! I would give any thing if it
was found, or if I had never touched it! It makes me feel so ashamed
when Cousin Deborah praises me, and says and does such kind things!
When Aunt Bernard scolded me, I did not feel so; I felt vexed and
angry, and just like being revenged upon her; but I don't feel so now."
"Didn't Mrs. Corbet say any thing about the thimble this morning?"
asked Anne.
"No: I don't think she has missed it yet. But, when she does, what
shall I ever do or say?"
"It, is very unlucky, and that is the truth," said Anne. "I don't doubt
that the beggar-woman got it; or perhaps a magpie spied it and took it
away. If we could only find out where it was gone! If there were only
a wise woman, now, like the one my aunt went to about her mistress's
silver spoons!"
"What do you mean by a Wise woman, Anne?"
"Oh, a woman that can tell all sorts of things,—how to cure cattle, and
how to find things that are lost or stolen. There was such a woman in
Stanton-Corbet once; but Parson Burgess would not let her practise her
arts there. He said she was a deceiver and an im——— What was the word,
now?"
"An impostor?" said Lucy.
"Yes, an impostor. He preached a sermon about it, more by token it
did not do much good, for the people went to her just the same: so,
finally, he drove her away out of the parish."
"Did he say it was wicked to go to such people?"
"Yes, I believe so. I was young then, and didn't mind so much about
sermons. But here we are at the lodge."
Lucy displayed her treasures, and had the pleasure of seeing one of the
pretty little twin-girls dressed in the clothes she had brought, and
also of being flattered and praised for her goodness and condescension.
Till Anne said,—"Now, Mary Bolton, don't you be turning the child's
head, and making her think she is an angel all complete, just for such
a little matter as that. I don't deny, it was kind in my little lady to
work for your baby; but it is no more than she ought to do, seeing how
much Mrs. Corbet does for her. Come, Lady Lucy; we must be on our way,
if we are going to the village."
"Are you going across the common?" asked Mary Bolton. "You had better
take the path through the plantation, I think. The gipsies on the
common, and my little lady might be frightened."
"Gipsies?" asked Lucy, looking a little scared.
"Yes; and a wild lot they do look, to be sure. They say the old women
are witches; and all the girls in the village are agog to have their
fortunes told."
"Don't you be scared, Lady Lucy," said Anne. "They won't meddle with
us, I dare say. By your leave, Mary Bolton, I would rather go across
the common than the other way. I should not relish meeting any of those
gentry in the woods. Betty Henwife will have to look sharp after her
fowls, and the gamekeeper for his pheasants, now we have gipsies in the
neighbourhood."
"Anne," said Lucy, after they had gone a little way, "do you suppose
the gipsy-woman could tell me what has become of my mother's thimble?"
"I was just thinking of that very thing," returned Anne. "I should
not wonder if she could; for they do tell wonderful things,—that is
certain. See, there they are,—tents, donkeys, and all."
There they were, forming a picturesque group enough, with their ragged
tents pitched under the shade of some old hawthorns, their donkeys and
ponies tethered near by, and their kettle, boiling, suspended on sticks
over the fire, with a tall old woman in a red cloak, just removing the
cover and stirring the mess.
Half a dozen half-naked children lay about; and no sooner did they
catch sight of Lucy than up they all jumped and ran towards her and
Anne, begging vociferously. Another woman, still taller and older than
the first, came striding towards them.
And Anne, calling to her, bade her call off the children, and the dogs,
which were now adding their voices to the chorus.
[Illustration: _Lady Lucy's Secret._
"She will cross the old gipsy's hand with silver."]
"Don't you be frightened, my pretty little lady," said the old woman,
in a coaxing voice. "No one shall hurt my pretty dear. She will cross
the old gipsy's hand with silver, and see what a fine fortune I will
tell her."
Lady Lucy and Anne looked at each other.
"Oh, yes; I know all about it," said the gipsy, nodding in a mysterious
manner. "I know there is a fine gentleman at the wars whom she loves.
And I know she has lately escaped from bondage and cruel oppressors,
and all that has happened to her since."
Lucy and Anne again exchanged glances of awe and wonder,—both of them
forgetting that this gipsy-woman could easily have learned all this
from the gossip of the village.
And Lucy half whispered, "Do you suppose she could tell about the
thimble?"
The gipsy-woman, like many other impostors of her class, had quick ears
and quick wits. She caught the word "thimble," and easily guessed that
Lucy had lost something of that sort.
"I can tell what has happened lately, too," she continued, in a
mysterious tone. "I can see what is lost, and where it lies, shining
like silver and gold, fit for a lady's finger when she is working for
her true lover. Only cross the poor gipsy's hand with silver, and you
shall see. As for you," she added, looking at Anne with a penetrating
glance, "you have lately had a rise in life, and shall soon have
another and there is a stout lad abroad at the wars who shall bring
home a gold ring some day."
"Just hear that!" said Anne, turning pale. "How could she know any
thing about John Martin, that went away to the wars with my lord?"
By this time Lady Lucy and Anne were prepared to believe any nonsense
the gipsy chose to tell them.
And Lucy whispered, "Ask her about the thimble."
"My lady has lost—" began Anne.
But the woman cut her short. "I know; I know. She has lost a thimble.
And, if she wants to find it, let her come to-morrow to the spring by
the brook, and bring something which has lain by the thimble,—something
of silver if it was silver, and of gold if it was gold,—and she shall
know all she desires. But let her beware how she deceives or trifles
with the gipsy-woman, lest she rue the day she saw me under the
hawthorn tree."
Terrified by this threat, all the more alarming from its mystery, and
by the frown and glance of the old woman, Lucy tremblingly promised all
she required.
"Must it be something out of the same box?" she asked.
"Yes, out of the same box. Don't fail to let it be of the same metal,
or it will do no good. Now, young woman, let me see your hand."
The gipsy told Anne a fine fortune, and sent her off greatly pleased.
Lucy, however, was not so well satisfied. She knew instinctively that
Cousin Deborah would never let her go to meet the gipsy-woman, and
that she must do so by stealth, if at all. Here was a new labyrinth of
deceit opening upon her.
"Oh, what a tangled web we weave
When first we practise to deceive!"
These lines were not written in Lady Lucy's day, or she might have
remembered them. She had made a resolution that she would never tell
another lie; but what was to become of that resolution now? And what
was it but stealing, if she took something else out of the box? But,
then, if she did not? Lucy shuddered. She was timid by nature, and
still more by education; and the thought of the gipsy's threats made
her tremble and turn cold.
It is to be hoped that almost any little girl of the present day would
have more sense than to be influenced as Lucy was. And yet I am not
sure that one could not find both children and grown-up people doing
quite as foolish things as going to a gipsy-woman about a lost thimble.
Indeed, if there can be said to be any sense in the matter, there
would seem to be two or three grains more in going to a live woman for
information than in asking a dead table.
But Lucy had never been taught any better: indeed, what teaching she
had ever received on the subject had been the other way.
You may easily see how Lady Lucy was prepared to fall into the snare
which the gipsy-woman had laid for her. She no more doubted that the
woman could tell where the thimble was, than she doubted that she had
lost it. And she felt more and more that she would give any thing she
had to get it into her own possession again: first, because, despite
Cousin Deborah's kindness, she could not divest herself of the idea
that she should be severely punished if it were known that she had lost
it; and secondly, because she could not bear to part with the thimble
her dear mamma had used when a little girl like herself.
That the gipsy might impose upon her, or that, even if she found out
where the thimble was, she might not be able to get it back again, were
matters which she never thought of. Her whole mind was occupied with
contriving how she might get down to the spring to-morrow without the
knowledge of Cousin Deborah. And she arrived at home before she had
come to any satisfactory decision.
CHAPTER IV.
"THE post-boy have been here and brought some letters," said Jenny, as
she met Lucy in the hall. "I should not wonder if Mrs. Corbet had news
of my lord your father. Anyhow, you were to go to her as soon as you
came in. She is sitting in the library."
Lucy would have found it hard to say whether she were most alarmed or
delighted with this news. She walked very soberly through the gallery,
where the portraits of all the long-dead Stantons and Corbets hung
against the wall, with suits of armour and groups of strange weapons
suspended between them, and tapped softly at the half-open library door.
"Come in, my love," answered Cousin Deborah's cheery voice, in a tone
which removed some, at least, of Lucy's fears. "See, here is a treasure
for you,—a letter from your dear father, and directed to yourself."
"Really for me, Cousin Debby?" asked Lucy, looking at the direction,
and then turning the letter over and examining the broad seal. "I never
had a letter of my own in my life."
"Really for you; and I hope you will appreciate your father's goodness
in taking so much pains for you. I assure you I was twice—yes, three
times—as old as you before I ever had a letter of my own. But open it,
and let us hear the news. I did not examine it, because I thought you
would like the pleasure of breaking the seal yourself."
"Just the way," thought Lucy. "She always thinks of what I shall
like. Oh, how wicked I am! Oh, if I only dared tell her all about the
thimble! I wonder if I could? But, then, the gipsy-woman, and those
terrible threats. Oh, dear! I never thought I could be so unhappy at
Stanton Court."
Lucy broke the seal of the letter neatly, as Cousin Deborah showed her
how to do, and opened the broad sheet, which was closely written from
end to end.
"Please to read it for me, Cousin Debby. I never can read writing-hand
fast."
"You must take pains to learn, Lucy. I have some very pretty letters,
which you can practise upon; but I will read this one to you, if you
please."
The letter was dated at the Duke of Marlborough's head-quarters,
near Neuburg, a little place on the river Danube, not very far from
Ingolstadt. It gave an account of such events of his journey as Lord
Stanton thought would be interesting to his little daughter.
"It is generally believed that we are upon the eve of a great and
decisive battle," said he; "though exactly when and how it will take
place, of course, I cannot inform you; but I believe before this letter
reaches you, the Duke of Marlborough and his noble ally, Prince Eugene,
will have defeated the army of the French king, under Marshall Tallard,
or will have been defeated themselves. The soldiers are in the best
of spirits, and full of trust in their great commander, insomuch that
no officer thinks of asking the reason of any of his motions, but all
follow him with blind confidence in his wisdom.
"But let my dear child give God thanks that she lives in a country
where the horrors of such war are unknown. The sights one sees here
are enough to break a man's heart. Smoking ruins which only a few
days since were thriving towns and lovely hamlets; old men, and
little children, and mothers with infants at their breasts, lying
down to starve at the roadside, or killed by the falling of their
own roof-trees; fruitful fields, lately ripening to the harvest, now
trampled and bare: these are but a few of the horrors which constantly
meet one's eyes. I do not suppose this ruin can be helped; but it
is indeed hard that such distress and destruction should fall upon
innocent heads, and that the French king, whose mad ambition has
brought about all this, should be living in luxury and quietness, far
from the very sound of war.
"It may be, my daughter, that this is the last letter you will ever
receive from your father. The duke has bestowed upon me the command of
my old regiment; and should there be a battle, which seems imminent,
you may be sure that your father will not be backward to do his part
and sustain the honour of our country. Should I fall, you will be left
in a position of great responsibility. Never forget, my child, that
you are but the steward of your wealth, which you are to use not for
your own selfish ease and pleasure, but for the honour of God and the
good of your fellows, specially of those who as tenants and servants
are more immediately in your power and under your influence. Take your
cousin Deborah's advice in all things, and be governed by her; but,
above all, pray to your Father in heaven for the guidance of his Holy
Spirit.
"These are matters which I have neglected too much in the course of
my life; but during my imprisonment, and while I was deprived of all
outward solace, God was pleased to bring me to a better mind; and
I trust, if my life be spared, I shall serve him henceforth as a
Christian man should do.
"One thing more, my dear Lucy: I parted with your aunt Bernard, as
you know, in great anger,—not without just cause. But it is my duty
to pardon all, even as I would myself be pardoned. I would not appear
before God save in charity with all men. I therefore desire that you
will convey to my sister Bernard the assurance of my full and free
forgiveness, in such way as Cousin Deborah may think best; and I also
desire that you, Lucy, will forgive her for the wrongs she has done
you. Cease not to pray for your father, my child; and may the God of
the fatherless be your support if I am taken from you!"
Lucy listened to this letter with quiet tears rolling down her face and
dropping in Cousin Deborah's apron.
"Oh," she thought, "if I only dared tell her all about the thimble! If
only it were not for those dreadful things the woman spoke of!"
"Now, Lucy, how shall we manage to convey your father's message to Aunt
Bernard?" asked Cousin Deborah. "Will you go and carry it to her?"
"Oh, Cousin Deborah, I dare not!" said Lucy, turning pale. "I dare not
speak to Aunt Bernard. You don't know how afraid I am of her."
Cousin Deborah put her arm round Lucy, and felt that she was trembling
at the very idea of facing her aunt. A feeling of indignation crossed
her mind as she thought what the tyranny must have been, which so
affected the child that the mere notion of speaking to Mrs. Bernard was
dreadful to her. She forbore to urge Lucy any further.
"Suppose, then, Lucy, you copy this message of your father's in your
own handwriting, and add some words of your own. I think that will be
the best course. And, my dear, I am sure you will not forget, in your
own secret prayers, to beseech God's protection for your dear father in
the perils to which he is exposed."
"Do you suppose there has been a battle, Cousin Deborah?" asked Lucy.
"Of course I cannot tell, my love. You see, your father himself did
not know. Great generals are not accustomed to tell their plans until
they are ready to act; and I have heard that the Duke of Marlborough is
remarkable for keeping his own counsel. But, even if there has been no
battle, your father may be in danger. Many soldiers are slain who are
not killed in battle."
"Then perhaps my papa may be dead already," said Lucy. "Oh, Cousin
Deborah, suppose I should be an orphan even now!" And Lucy burst into
tears, and wept bitterly.
"My dearest child," said Cousin Deborah, taking Lucy upon her lap, and
wiping away the tears which fell from her own eyes, "we cannot tell
what may have happened; but, Lucy, you must try to remember that God is
in Bavaria as well as here, and to trust in him to take care of your
dear father. 'God is love,' you know St. John says in the verses we
read this morning."
"But God will not love me, because I am a naughty girl," sobbed Lucy.
"Aunt Bernard said God hated me and would send his judgments to destroy
me."
"My dear child, never, never believe that God hates you,—no, not even
if you feel that you have been ever so naughty," said Cousin Deborah.
"He sent his dear Son to die for us because we were sinners, and for no
other reason. It was therefore we stood in need of his death, because
we were sinners. Sinner though you may be, God still loves you, and
desires that you may repent and return to him; and the moment you do
so, he is ready to receive and forgive you and treat you as his dear
child once more. Sometimes our heavenly Father sees fit to punish his
children, and so he sends some trouble upon them, even upon those who
are trying to follow him the most faithfully; but that is no sign he
does not love them, any more than it would be a sign I did not love you
because I saw reason to reprove you for some fault. Will you remember
this, my child?"
"Yes, Cousin Debby," whispered Lucy, hiding her face on her cousin's
breast.
"Now, I want to talk to you about something else, Lucy," said Cousin
Deborah, after a little silence. "I have received a letter from my
cousin Paulina, who, you know, lives in Exeter and keeps a girls'
school. She wishes me to come and see her, that she may advise with me
about some matters of importance connected with her present enterprise.
There are some reasons why I do not wish to take you at present; though
I mean you shall go with me some day. And, if I leave you at home, will
you be very steady, and do all your tasks, and be obedient to Anne?"
"I will try, Cousin Debby."
"I shall be gone a day or two,—not longer, I think," continued Cousin
Deborah. "And if I hear a good account of you on my return, and
see that you have tried to give me pleasure by being faithful and
industrious, I shall be very much gratified; because it will show that
you are a trustworthy little girl."
"Yes, Cousin Debby," murmured Lucy, again.
"Very well, my love. Then I shall venture to take this little journey,
having confidence that you will not fall into any mischief because I am
not here to watch you. I trust you, Lucy."
"When shall you go, Cousin Deborah?" asked Lucy, feeling—oh, so small
and mean in her own estimation, as the thought crossed her mind that
Cousin Deborah's going away would remove all hindrances to her meeting
the gipsy-woman.
"I cannot tell until I see Mattison and find out what horse there is
for me to ride. It is something of a journey,—twenty good miles; and I
am not so good a horsewoman as I was thirty years ago, when I rode from
Exeter to London on the mare that all the men were afraid of."
Mattison was an old, broken-down trooper, who was head-groom and
general master of the horse at Stanton Court. Consultation with him
revealed the fact that there was a steady old gray horse, just the
thing for a lady like Mrs. Corbet, and a broken-down charger left
behind by my lord, which would answer very well for Mattison, who was
to accompany her. So it was settled that they should take an early
breakfast and set out from Stanton Court in the cool of the morning,
resting, during the hottest part of the day, at the house of an old
lady, a friend of Cousin Deborah's.
Anne was a little surprised, the next morning, to see Lady Lucy, after
she had watched her cousin down the avenue, turn into the terrace
parlour, as it was called, and seat herself at her lute, with the
hour-glass by which she was used to time her tasks, on the table by
the side of her lesson-book. She had expected to see Lucy take the
opportunity to play.
"You are very industrious, my lady," said she. "That is not the way you
used to do when Mrs. Bernard went away."
"Aunt Bernard was one person, and Cousin Deborah is another," said
Lucy. "Cousin Deborah said she trusted me to be a good girl; and I am
going to try and please her. Aunt Bernard never trusted me; and you
know yourself, Anne, I never could please her, do what I would. It
never made one bit of difference whether I did my tasks or let them
alone; and so I used to feel as though I might as well do one thing as
an other. But Cousin Deborah always praises me if I do well and if I do
ill, she does not seem vexed—only sorry; that makes me feel as though I
wanted to do every thing right."
"Well, I'll not say but you are in the right," replied Anne, seriously.
"Mrs. Corbet is one of the best ladies I ever knew, I will say for her;
and it was a blessed day for you which put you into her hands. By the
way, has she ever said any thing about the thimble?"
"Not a word," replied Lucy. "It seems as though she must have missed
it; but she has never spoken about it."
"I don't understand it," returned Anne. "She may be waiting to see if
you will find it and put it back of your own accord."
"Do you think the gipsy-woman will be able to tell where it is, Anne?"
"I can't justly say. They do know wonderful things, to be sure. And
it is not safe to offend them, either; for there is no knowing what
revenge they may take. There was a woman my grandmother knew, who lived
on the edge of Exmoor,—" And forthwith Anne plunged into a foolish
tale, effectually diverting Lucy's mind from her practising, and making
her feel more than ever afraid of not keeping her appointment with the
gipsy.
"If I could only feel right about Cousin Deborah," said she; "but I am
almost sure she will not like it."
"She will not know it," argued Anne; "and what folks don't know don't
hurt them, folks say."
"I don't know I think it does, sometimes," said Lucy. "But, anyhow, I
cannot help feeling mean and wicked when Cousin Deborah talks about
trusting me and I know that I am telling her lies and deceiving her all
the time. I wish I had told her all about the thimble the first minute
I lost it. If I had gone out and picked it up, and told her how it came
out there, she might have been angry; but she would have forgiven me, I
know, and it would have been all right now."
"Then why did you not tell her before she went away?" asked Anne.
"That was different," replied Lucy. "I had told her more than one lie
already; and you know how she hates lies. And there is the gipsy-woman,
too! But please, Anne, don't talk to me any more now. I want to
practise my music and learn my tables, as I promised Cousin Deborah."
Dinner-time came, and near the hour at which they had promised to
meet the gipsy, Lucy and Anne were at the spring. The woman was there
before them, seated on a stone, with her red cloak drawn about her,
and her elbow resting on her knee. She was stirring the water of the
little spring with a peeled rod she held in her hand, and seemed to be
muttering something to herself.
"So you are come at last," said the hag, sternly, addressing herself
to Lucy. "Well for you that you were no later. Have you brought what I
told you?"
Lucy trembled as she drew from her pocket a small, gold-handled
fruit-knife and put it into the hand of the woman, whose experienced
eyes at once told her that the metal was pure.
"It is small; but it may do," said she. She turned her back upon the
two spectators, and proceeded to rub the knife, to breathe upon it, and
go through various mystical ceremonies, while Lucy and Anne looked on
in silent awe.
"You must leave this with me to-night," she said; "and to-morrow at
this hour you must bring me something more."
"I must not,—I dare not," exclaimed Lucy, in great distress.
"But you shall," said the witch, with a fearful frown, "or great
trouble will visit you. Take your choice; but remember." And, without
another word, she turned her back upon Lucy and Anne, and stalked off
down the valley by the side of the brook, till a turn in the path hid
her from their eyes.
CHAPTER V.
"WELL, my lady," said Anne, when the old woman had disappeared, "what
shall we do now?"
Lucy stood looking at the spring, watching the tiny stream as it
trickled down the rock and fell, with a soft, silver tinkle, into the
little stone basin. She stood a while in silence, and her face began to
assume a new expression,—a look of gentle determination, such as Anne
had never seen upon it before.
"What shall we do, my lady?" repeated Anne.
And at the same moment, Jack, the donkey, who had stood patiently
dozing during the whole interview, pushed his head over Lucy's shoulder.
"We will go home," said Lucy, lifting her eyes from the spring at last;
"and we will never come here again,—never!" she repeated, firmly.
"Hush, for mercy's sake, my dear child!" whispered Anne. "You don't
know who may be listening to you. There! Did you hear that?" she added,
starting, as a strange sound, something like a laugh, was heard over
their heads.
Lucy looked up. "It is the carrion crow. Don't you see him up on the
dead tree yonder?"
"The corby! Oh, my lady, what will become of us? They say he is always
a messenger of ill."
"Ill or well, I will not come here again nor will I give that woman any
more of my dear mother's things. Come, Anne; put me on the donkey, and
let us go home."
Anne obeyed, wondering what had come over her young lady. She would
have gone on talking about the corby; but Lucy stopped her.
"Don't,—please, Anne. I want to think about something."
Presently they met Dr. Burgess, striding along the path, with a stick
in his hand, and humming a psalm-tune.
"Heyday, whom have we here? My little Lady Lucy, as I am alive! And
what are you doing in this lonely place, my love?"
"My lady came out for a ride, and wished to see the spring," Anne
replied, readily enough.
"Ay, 'tis a curious solitary place: is it not, my dear? There are many
such in these Devonshire coombs; and some day, if Mrs. Corbet will
kindly give us permission, I will take you and my own girls to see a
very beautiful spring in Ferncoomb, where there are the remains of an
ancient chapel and hermitage. 'Tis a treat I have long promised to
Polly and Dulcie. Meantime, Lady Lucy, I would advise you to take your
rides and walks in more frequented places. These gipsies are a lawless
gang, and I would not have you encounter them. They are making mischief
in the parish, stealing fowls and fruit, and turning the girls' heads
with their fortune-telling nonsense. I hear they have fooled Dame
Shearer out of a good round sum, pretending to tell her where the money
is her husband lost coming from the fair."
"Do you not think, then, that they can tell where it is?" Lucy gathered
courage to ask.
"I think it not unlikely they may know where it is, but I doubt very
much whether they will ever tell her," answered Dr. Burgess, drily.
He was silent for a few moments, and then asked Lucy if she had heard
from her father since his departure.
Lucy told him she had just received a letter, and repeated what her
father had said, in respect to the probability of a great battle.
"You will doubtless feel very anxious till you can hear again," said
the doctor, kindly: "but, my dear child, strive to put your trust in
God and rely upon his mercy and goodness. Doubtless you pray for your
father every day, and we at the parsonage will add our petitions to
yours."
"Dr. Burgess," said Lucy, presently, in a low voice, and raising her
eyes timidly to the face of the good clergyman.
"Well, my daughter."
"Will you please to explain something to me?"
"Surely, surely, my daughter. I shall be glad to do so."
"My father says," continued Lucy, "that I must ask God for the guidance
of his Holy Spirit. What does that mean?"
In plain and well-chosen words, Dr. Burgess explained to Lucy the
meaning of the phrase. "It is your privilege and your duty to ask
constantly for this guidance, my dear, young lady," he added. "But
then, when you have received it, you must follow it."
"How can I tell when I have received it?" asked Lucy.
"Your conscience, and the word of God, must be your guide," replied Dr.
Burgess. "When your conscience tells you that what you are about to do
is wrong, you must obey its voice and refrain; and when it bids you do
thus, and so you must obey also, no matter what it costs. Now, do you
understand?"
"I think I do," replied Lucy. "Thank you, sir!"
"Is there any thing else I can do for you?" asked Dr. Burgess, kindly,
as they came near the lodge. "Do not fear to ask me. There is nothing
which pleases me more than to have the young people of my charge come
to me for advice or assistance."
"I am sure, you are very good to me; every one is very good to me, I
think," said Lucy. "I did not think there were such good people in the
world."
"There are both good and bad in the world, as you will soon find,—as
indeed I think you have found already," replied the good clergyman,
smiling. "May God bless you, my child, and give you his grace in every
time of need."
Lucy took in her own little fingers the broad hand the doctor laid upon
her head and kissed it.
"I love you dearly," she whispered. "You will pray for my dear father,
and for me, too?"
"Indeed, I will," said the doctor; "and so will we all. Farewell, and
be a good girl, and do not stir far from home while your good cousin is
away. Home is the safest place for little maids, gentle or simple."
"I am going up to my room, Anne," said Lucy, as she entered the door.
"Please to call me when my supper is ready."
"What has got into that child?" said Anne to herself, gazing after Lucy
as she ascended the broad staircase. "She looks the very moral of my
lord, her father. I never thought of it before."
And Anne, who, like others of her class, delighted in prophecies of
evil, pursed up her mouth, and talked so mysteriously and dolefully in
the kitchen, that the little scullion maid was not a little perplexed.
When Anne went up to call Lady Lucy to supper, she found her reading
her Bible—her own mother's velvet-bound and golden-clasped Bible—which
her father had given her before she went away.
"This Bible," he said, "cost your dear mother her home and friends, and
many a tear besides; and yet it was the greatest treasure of her heart.
Be sure you prize it as she did, and make it the rule of your life."
Afterwards Cousin Deborah told Lucy the outline of her mother's story.
She had belonged to a Protestant family in the south of France, on
the border of Italy; but her own father and mother dying when she was
eight or nine years old, she had been adopted by an aunt. This aunt had
abandoned the Protestant principles, for which so many of her ancestors
had perished upon the wheel and at the stake, and had become a Roman
Catholic of the strictest school. She had done her best to bring up
the little Lucille in the same way. But Lucille always remembered, and
secretly clung to, the faith she had learned at her dead mother's knee.
Perhaps, too, the strictness and gloom of her aunt did not tend to make
the young girl in love with her religion.
At any rate, when she was eighteen, she fell in with one of the
Protestant preachers, who had been a friend of her parents; was
instructed by him more fully in their faith, and more than once
attended their secret meetings. And being finally threatened with
lifelong imprisonment in a convent, she had joined herself to one
of the families of the Huguenot refugees, who were leaving France
by hundreds at that time. And, after many perils, arrived safely in
London, where Lord Stanton, then a young soldier, met, fell in love
with, and married her. This English Bible had been his first gift to
his bride, and dearly did Lucy love it for her mother's sake. For her
sake, too, she had read it every day since her father put it into her
hands; but now she was studying it for her own.
Lucy looked up from her book as Anne entered the room. She had been
weeping, and the tears still hung on her long, curved eyelashes but her
face wore a new expression of peace and happiness.
She was very silent for the rest of the evening, and did not seem
disposed to listen to Anne's gossip as usual, but sat knitting on the
stocking which she had begun the day before, now and then glancing at
the Bible which lay open before her at the ninety-first Psalm.
Anne thought she was getting it by heart.
"How loud the sea roars!" said Lucy. "I haven't heard it so loud since
we came here."
"There is going to be a storm," replied Anne. "See there is a flash
already! Mercy on me, Lady Lucy! What shall we do if there is a
thunder-storm?"
"Wait till it is over, I suppose," said Lucy, "and pray that we may be
taken care of."
"Well, I know one thing," said Anne. "I wish that you had not angered
that woman. I cannot get her face out of my mind."
"Dr. Burgess is not afraid of her, you see," said Lucy. "He called her
an impostor, and said he meant to drive her out of the parish. I will
have nothing more to do with her; of that I am resolved, come what
will."
"Then you will lose the knife as well as the thimble," said Anne: "and
what will your cousin say to that?"
"I fear she will be very angry, but I cannot help that," replied Lucy.
"I am not going to do any more wrong things if I can help it. One lie
just leads to another, and so on, till there is no end to them."
"I should just like to know what has set you on thinking of all these
grave things so suddenly," said Anne. "You never did so at Mrs.
Bernard's, and you read six chapters in the Bible, for one that you
read with Mrs. Corbet."
"That was very different," said Lucy. "Aunt Bernard never explained any
thing to me. All she did was to slap my hands if I did not call the
words right; and she kept me standing up to read till I was ready to
drop, and so stupid that I could not understand any thing if I tried.
Cousin Deborah only lets me read a short lesson at a time,—one psalm,
or a part of a chapter, in the New Testament,—and she explains every
verse, and tells me the meaning of all the hard words. It was one verse
we talked about which made me resolve to have nothing more to do with
the gipsy, and to confess the truth to Cousin Debby when she comes
home."
"Tell me all about it," said Anne, willing to talk about any thing
rather than hold her tongue and listen to the approaching thunder, and
the roar of the waves on the beach below. "What was the verse?"
"It was, 'If I regard wickedness in my heart, the Lord will not hear
me!'" repeated Lucy. "Cousin Deborah said that meant that if we kept
wicked thoughts in our minds, and wicked desires in our hearts, God
would not hear our prayers. She said that we need not be afraid to
pray, even though we had been ever so wicked, if only we were truly
sorry for our sin; but unless we were sorry, and meant to leave off our
sin, there was no use in praying."
"True enough," said Anne, in rather a sleepy tone. "My! What a flash.
The storm is coming nearer and nearer."
"Well," continued Lucy, "then came the letter from my dear father, in
which he said they were going to have a dreadful battle, and asked me
to pray to God for him. I do want to pray for him," said Lucy, with a
trembling voice. "It seems to be all the comfort there is, when I think
of him in the midst of the swords and cannon balls, or perhaps lying on
the ground wounded under the horses' feet, like that poor soldier in
the great picture down-stairs: but what is the use of my praying, if I
am inclining to wickedness with my heart all the time?"
"These are grave thoughts for a little lady like you," said Anne, not
altogether at ease in her own mind. "I am sure the parson could not
say all that any better. I don't like filling a young head with such
things, for my part. Time enough when you grow an old lady, like Mrs.
Corbet."
"Perhaps I shall never live to be an old lady like Mrs. Corbet," said
Lucy: "and the French soldiers will not wait for me to grow up, to
shoot at my dear papa."
"And that is true, too," said Anne. "Well, my dear, I am sure I am glad
you find comfort in the Bible, and I would be the last one to oppose
you. I remember when my poor sister was in the waste of which she died;
after her sweetheart was drowned in the fishing-boat, the Bible was her
only comfort. I have been sorry ever since, that I let you have any
thing to do with that gipsy-woman; and I shall never forgive myself if
harm comes of it to you."
"What harm can come besides the loss of the knife and of my silver
sixpence? I do not believe the Lord will hear that wicked woman,—for
I am sure she is wicked,—and you know, Anne, if he takes care of us,
nothing can harm us. I was learning a beautiful psalm this very evening
which tells about that. Shall I say it to you?"
Anne assented; and Lady Lucy repeated the ninety-first psalm.
Long before it was finished, Anne was sound asleep. And Lucy,
notwithstanding the thunder, lightning, and rain, soon followed her
example.
When she opened her eyes, it was broad daylight. The sun was shining,
and a dear little robin-redbreast was singing his song right on her
window-seat. Lucy slipped out of bed and went to the window. Every
thing was drenched and dripping with wet. It had evidently blown hard
during the night, for in more than one place, broken branches were
hanging on the trees or lying on the grass: but every thing glittered
in the sunlight, the air was fresh and sweet, and the world seemed to
be rejoicing in the new light of morning.
Thankful tears rose to Lucy's eyes, and she repeated the words of her
morning hymn:—
"Glory to Him who safe hath kept,
And hath preserved me while I slept;
Grant, Lord, when I from death shall wake,
I may of endless life partake."
She stole softly to the door and opened it a little way. There lay a
friend indeed, no less than Goodman, the old bloodhound, who had been a
puppy when her father went away, and had known him again when he came
back. Old Goodman who was allowed to go about as he liked, and who had
more than once hidden himself in the house and stayed all night in some
snug corner. He now lay comfortably snoozing on the mat, but lifted his
head and knocked his tail against the floor as Lucy opened the door.
"You dear, faithful, old dog," said Lucy, bending over him and patting
the great head tenderly. "Did you come to take care of your little
mistress, you dear dog? You shall have some of my breakfast and sleep
here every night till Cousin Deborah comes home. And you will take care
of your little mistress, won't you, old fellow?"
Goodman lazily put up his tawny muzzle and licked Lucy's face, as if
ratifying this treaty on his own part. And Lucy, feeling her heart
lighter than for many a day, went back to her room to dress.
"Dear me, Lady Lucy, are you up already?" asked Anne, sleepily. "I am
sure it is very early."
"It is six o'clock and a beautiful morning," replied Lucy, adding
rather mischievously: "I should think you had slept sound enough, Anne.
You never heard the storm last night. And, Anne, go down and see about
my breakfast. I should like to be alone a little while."
All that day Lucy kept herself closely within the limits of the house
and garden, doing her task with punctilious accuracy. She even resumed
the open-hem ruffling which had lain untouched in her drawer ever since
she came from Aunt Bernard's, intending to ask Cousin Deborah if she
might make it into something for the twins at the lodge, in which she
took a great interest. She would have liked to go down and see the
dear little babies, but she thought it likely enough that she might
encounter the gipsy-woman, and she wisely judged it best to keep out of
her way.
The old bloodhound, her self-elected guardian, was faithful to his
trust, stalking up and down the terrace at Lucy's side, sitting at her
elbow at meal-times, and lying at her feet while she was reading or
working in the terrace parlour. There was nothing very remarkable in
the dog's taking a fancy to the lonely little girl, who had always a
kind word for him in passing and often gave him a share of the bun, or
the bit of ginger-bread which Cousin Deborah allowed her. Neither was
it surprising, that Goodman should prefer lying on the Turkey carpet in
the parlour to reposing upon the flags outside.
Nevertheless, Anne chose to see in it a new marvel, and pointed it out
to Jenny with many significant shrugs and winks.
When Lucy went to bed, Goodman still accompanied her, and settled
himself down on the mat in a composed matter-of-fact way, which moved
Anne to say that the dog had more sense than some Christians.
There was another thunder-storm in the night, but Lucy only roused
herself to wonder whether there were any fishermen out in their boats
from the cove below; to murmur a prayer for them, and for her father
and cousin and then sank to sleep again.
"Will Mattison has come home," was the news which met Lucy, as she came
down-stairs the next morning. "He is waiting to speak to you."
"Has not my cousin come, then?" asked Lucy, her heart beating fast.
"Oh, Anne, has any thing happened to Cousin Deborah?"
"Now, don't, my lady! I don't think any harm has come to Mrs. Corbet;
but Will will tell you all about it. Shall I send him in to you?"
It turned out that nothing serious was the matter. Cousin Deborah had
met an old friend in Exeter, who persuaded her to stay a night with her
upon the road. And she had sent Will Mattison home with her parcels,
that he might apprise Lady Lucy of the cause of her delay.
"I got to the village last night just as the storm came up," concluded
Will: "so I thought it better to put up at the ale-house, rather than
run the risk of spoiling my mistress' bundles of mercery. And, my lady,
if I might presume to offer my advice, you will not stir outside the
gardens and park while your cousin is away. I heard a deal of talk
about the gipsies, down at the village last night. They say they are a
desperate gang, and the very same that was chased out of Somersetshire
this spring. Not as I believe all the nonsense folks tell about the
gipsies either. I dare say there may be good and bad among them, but
these here is a bad-looking set, surely, and it wouldn't be altogether
pleasant for a young lady to meet with them. I hope you will excuse the
freedom, my lady—"
"You are quite right, Will, and I thank you for your care of me. You
see I have one guard already," added Lucy, patting the head of the old
dog. "Now go and tell cook to give you a good breakfast."
"I never did see any one so changed as my young lady," said Will, as he
returned to the kitchen. "When she first came here, she was as scared
as a young fawn, and the moment any one spoke to her, her great black
eyes were looking every way like a startled hares: but now she seems to
have plucked up a spirit, and speaks so quiet and dignified like. That
old woman must have used the child awful to have cowed and broken her
spirit so. It makes my old blood boil to think of it."
Lucy ate her breakfast with old Goodman sitting at her elbow
contentedly munching the crusts she gave him. Then she walked a while
upon the terrace; visited and inspected a litter of kittens which Will
had found in the stable; and finally sat down to her lessons in the
bow-window, with the dog still in close attendance.
She had finished her practising and learned her spelling-lesson, and
was sitting industriously working at the open-hem she used to dislike
so much, when the window was suddenly darkened by a shadow, and, at the
same moment, Goodman bristled up and gave a deep growl.
Lucy looked up.
There before the open window stood the gipsy-woman, with her black
glittering eyes fixed upon Lucy's face.
"So, my young lady, this is the way you keep your promise to the
gipsy-woman! You bring me to the place appointed and keep me waiting,
the whole afternoon while you take your pleasure at home. But beware
what you do! I am not to be played with, as you may find to your cost
some day."
For the moment, Lucy's fears overmastered her new-found faith and
courage. She sat pale and trembling, unable to stir or even to call for
help. The wicked woman saw her advantage.
"Did you hear the storm last night and the night before? Ay, but did
you know what was riding upon the lightning and the wind, waiting only
for my word to lay this proud roof-tree and all beneath it low in the
dust? You little know what my art can do yet for good or evil!"
She fixed her eyes upon the work-box which stood open on the table, and
continued, in a still fiercer tone, "Give me something from that box as
I bade you; give me my choice from it, and you shall find all you have
lost, and be lucky and prosperous henceforth. Refuse or betray me, and
you shall never know one peaceful night more, but shall pine and pine,
till you shall wish in vain for death to release you. Give it me, I
say, or I will take it."
"I will not!" returned Lucy, finding her voice and her courage all at
once. "You are a wicked woman; and I will not give you any more of my
dear mother's things. Goodman, watch good dog!"
The woman made a stride forward, and stretched out her hand towards the
box.
Goodman seemed to think the time had come for action. With a fearful
growl, he sprang forward in his turn, and would have caught her by the
throat.
But, luckily for her, a rough hand was laid upon her shoulder pulling
her back, and a rough voice said,—
"Halloo, mistress! What are you about here, frightening my young lady?
Down, Goodman, but watch. Be quiet, woman! The dog would as soon pull
you down as a deer, if I gave him the word. What are you about, my
lady, talking with such riff-raff?"
"Oh, Will Mattison, I am so glad you are come!" exclaimed Lucy,
bursting into tears. "Oh, take her away!"
The woman smoothed her frowning brow and softened her tones
wonderfully. "Nay, master, no need to be so rough. There is no harm
done nor meant, only my little honey-sweet lady is so easily scared. If
she would but listen a moment, she would hear the fine fortune I have
to tell her."
"Coarse or fine, we want none of your fortunes: so you may just troop
off," said Will, stoutly. "My lady, have you any thing to say to this
woman?"
"No, oh, no! Take her away, but do not hurt her."
"Oh, I will go fast enough, never fear. No need to bid your man drive
me away. I will go fast enough, never to return; and no more shall some
one else, neither shall that which is lost ever be found again: mind
that, my fair lady. Never again shall you find what you have lost or
see your father's face. Yes, I will go; but, mayhap, I will send them
in my place that shall make my scornful lady wish the old gipsy back
again, but I shall be far away. Oh, yes, I will go."
"Go, then, and make us quit of you," said the sturdy old trooper, not
at all alarmed at this mysterious threat. "I am too old a soldier to
be scared at a woman's tongue, be she young or old. I've seen plenty
of your sort in Germany and the low countries, where they use less
ceremony with vagrants than here. Come, troop!"
"Oh, Will, don't anger her!" said Anne, who had come in and stood
trembling at the scene. "Don't anger her. There's no knowing what she
may do. What if she should curse you?"
"Let her," returned Will. "I will tell you, girl, a good saying I
learned long ago from the Moors at Tangier; 'Curses are like young
chickens, they always come home to roost.' I am a Christian man I trow,
and shall I have less courage than a heathen Moor? Come, mistress;
troop, I say!"
"Well, I do say it is a fine thing to travel abroad," said Anne,
looking at Will as he followed the woman along the terrace. "Just hear
how she is cursing him! I wouldn't be in his place for something."
"She is gone, my lady," said Will, presently reappearing at the
bow-window. "I promise you she gave it to me finely. Such a foul mouth
I never heard, even among the gipsies. But don't you fear her. I don't
believe the good Lord is going to bring evil on this honourable house
for any curses of hers. So don'tee cry any more, my dear young lady,
don'tee now," continued the good old man, as Lucy's tears still fell
fast upon the head of old Goodman, which he had laid on her knee; "but
be a brave maid and all will be well. Goodman and old Will Mattison
will take good care of you till Mrs. Corbet returns. And in good time
here she comes," he added, looking towards the avenue. "I wonder what
has brought her home so early in the day? Anyhow, I am glad to see her,
and I must go and hold her horse. So wipe up your tears, there's a
brave maid, and go to meet your cousin."
CHAPTER VI.
"WHAT! Tears upon your cheeks, my Lucy," said Mrs. Corbet, as she
dismounted from her horse and bent to kiss Lucy. "Nay, my child, that
is but a sorry welcome."
"My lady has just been frightened by a gipsy-woman, and no shame to
her," said Will Mattison. "She came to the window as bold as brass,
when my lady was alone all but old Goodman, and a fearsome bold hag she
was; but I sent her to the right about, I promise you. You have come
earlier than I expected, madam."
"Yes; I had the offer of good company in the Vicar of Clevelay, who
was riding this way, and I thought best to accept it. And so you had a
fright, my love? I am sorry for that; but put it out of your mind now.
No harm shall happen to you. Good old dog,—brave Goodman! Have you been
taking care of Lucy?"
"Indeed he has, cousin! He has slept at my door every night since you
went away, and he will not leave me a moment."
"Were you frightened at the thunder, Lucy?"
"I was the first night, but not the second," said Lucy. "I went to
sleep in the midst of it."
"That was well. Now, come up with me in my room, while I take off my
hat and habit."
There was a shade of anxiety and care under all Cousin Debby's cheery
manner. The truth was, she had heard the report that there had been a
great battle fought between the Duke of Marlborough's forces and those
of the French king. It was no more than a rumour; but Cousin Debby well
knew how apt such rumours are to prove true, and she wished to be at
home with Lucy when any authentic news should arrive.
It was with a fluttering and sinking heart that Lucy followed her
cousin along the gallery to her own room. She had fully determined
to confess all her fault to Cousin Debby, whatever might be the
consequence; nor did she swerve from her resolution as the time drew
near for putting it into practice. Nevertheless, she trembled so
violently that her limbs almost failed to support her, when she found
herself alone with Mrs. Corbet in her own room.
If Cousin Deborah noticed her agitation, she probably imputed it to
Lucy's late fright; for she made no remark upon it, but talked to Lucy
of her journey, as she took off her riding-hat and bathed her face and
hands. Then, sitting down in her chair, she called the little girl to
her side, and put into her hands a small case, which she took from her
pocket.
"Open it, my dear! See, this is the way."
Lucy opened it, and started with surprise. There lay the missing
thimble, in all its old beauty of blue and white enamel, the gold as
bright and pure as ever, with her mother's name upon the side.
"Had you missed it?" asked Cousin Deborah. "I had an opportunity of
sending to Exeter: so I despatched it to the goldsmith there to be
mended and made a little smaller, that you might sometimes have the
pleasure of using your mother's thimble. Why, Lucy, my dear child, what
is the matter?"
For Lucy had dropped upon her knees by her cousin's side, and, hiding
her face in her lap, was crying so bitterly, that her whole frame was
convulsed by her sobs.
"Hush! Hush! My child. You will make yourself ill," said Cousin
Deborah, soothing her. "What is it makes you cry? Did you think the
thimble was lost?"
"Oh, Cousin Debby, I have been so wicked," sobbed Lucy. "You will never
love me again, when I tell you what I have done."
"I shall not cease to love you, though you have been ever so naughty,
if I see you are sorry for what you have done," said Cousin Deborah,
gravely but kindly. "Compose yourself, my child, and tell me all about
the matter."
In low tones, and often interrupted with sobs, Lucy confessed the
whole, hiding nothing, and making no attempt to excuse herself.
Cousin Deborah listened in silence.
As Lucy finished her tale, she laid her head again upon her cousin's
knee. She expected to feel herself lifted roughly to her feet, and
shaken out of breath; but she seemed determined to keep hold of her
refuge as long as possible.
But in a minute, a gentle hand stroked down her hair, and a gentle
voice said,—
"My poor, little, weak-spirited girl! Could you not trust Cousin
Deborah?"
Lucy's tears flowed fast once more, but they were very different tears.
"See how much harm has come from your cowardice," continued Cousin
Deborah. "If you had told me directly you lost the thimble, I should
have been displeased, indeed, at your disobedience, but there would
have been the end. You would have been spared all this grief, and
anxiety, and all the terrors you suffered from the gipsy-woman. You
would not have lost your dear mother's knife, and, above all, Lucy, you
would not have been tempted to tell so many lies."
"I kept thinking all the time that I would not tell any more," said
Lucy; "but, somehow, they kept coming all the more."
"Yes, that is always the way. One lie leads to another, till we become
involved in a web of deceit, and feel as if we knew not how to stir
hand or foot. I am thankful you had the courage to break away at last."
"It was that verse about inclining unto wickedness that helped me
more than any thing," said Lucy, gathering courage from her cousin's
kindness. "I kept thinking how I could pray for papa, while I was being
so naughty."
"Well," said Cousin Deborah, encouragingly, as Lucy paused, "what then?"
"I thought of it there at the spring, when the witch threatened that
I should never see papa again unless I brought her something more,"
continued Lucy, "and that made me resolve I would never go again,
whatever happened to me, and that I would tell you all about it."
Lucy went on to tell her cousin about her meeting and conversation
with Dr. Burgess, and added, "I am not quite sure I did right, cousin,
but when I came home, I shut myself up in my own room and prayed to
God to forgive me, and give me his Holy Spirit, as the doctor said;
and, Cousin Debby, was it wicked? It did really seem as if he heard me
and gave me new strength and courage; and then I resolved again that
I would tell all about it as soon as you came home. Was it really his
guiding me by his Spirit, Cousin Deborah?" asked Lucy, in a tone of
deep awe.
"I have not a doubt of it, my child."
"And you will forgive me, won't you, cousin?" pleaded Lucy. "Indeed,
indeed, I am so very sorry!"
"I forgive you with all my heart, my dear," said Cousin Deborah,
kissing her; "and I trust you will never be so foolish again as to
be afraid of me. Now, I must send Will Mattison with a note to Dr.
Burgess, if perhaps he may be able to do something towards recovering
the knife. Stay you here, meanwhile, and we will talk of the matter
again."
When Cousin Deborah returned, she took Lucy on her lap, and talked
with her very seriously about the sin she had committed. Lucy was very
penitent and very much ashamed; nevertheless, she felt happier than she
had done in a long time. Cousin Deborah explained to her also the folly
of supposing that God would reveal to an ignorant, wicked woman the
things which were about to happen, or which had happened at a distance,
and of thinking that he would allow such a person to harm his own
children by enchantments or spells.
"But they do know things somehow," Lucy ventured to say, "or how could
that woman have guessed it was a thimble I had lost?"
"Did not you and Anne say something about it?"
"I remember now I did tell Anne to ask her about the thimble," said
Lucy, "and perhaps she overheard me. I remember, too, she did not know
whether it was a silver or a gold thimble. Yet, if she had known where
it was, she might have told what it was made of, one would think. But,
Cousin Debby, she knew that my father was at the war, and that Jack
Martin went with him."
"I dare say and so does every one in the village know it, and that
Anne and Jack Martin were engaged to be married: so you see there is
nothing wonderful in that. No doubt they pick up a great deal of such
information which they use as occasion serves. Then, too, their tribes
are scattered all over the world, and are said to keep up constant
intercourse with one another: so they may often obtain news of what is
passing abroad in a way which seems very wonderful to those not in the
secret."
"Who are the gipsies, Cousin Deborah? They do not look like English
people."
"It is not known from whence they came in the first place. They
seem to have made their first appearance in Europe in the fifteenth
century, (there were more than one hundred in Paris in 1427), and were
then believed to have come from Egypt. Gipsy is from the French word
Egyptien. There have been a great many speculations concerning them. *
They evidently have a language and customs of their own. They are a
great pest wherever they go, from their thieving, begging habits, and
it may be doubted whether they are not often concerned in worse crimes."
* Mr. Grellmann supposes that they are of the lowest class of East
Indians, viz., Pariahs, or Soodras, and that they were driven from
Hindoostan to Europe, by Timur Beg, in 1408 or 1409.
"Why do not people try to teach them better, Cousin Deborah?"
"My dear, that is a question I have often asked myself. It does not
seem to me that Christian people have awaked to their duty in that
respect, and that something might be done for these wretched outcasts.
Their unsettled mode of life, however, is much in the way of gaining
any influence over them. And so long as they can make a subsistence by
their pretended acts of fortune-telling and treasure-finding, they are
not likely to settle to any honest employment.
"I hope, my dear Lucy, you will never be so foolish again as to go to
these wretched people for any such purpose. And, now, tell me another
thing, Lucy. Do you think it is a very pleasant thing for a little girl
to have secrets which she is afraid will be found out by those who have
the care of her?"
"No, indeed, Cousin Deborah! I hope I shall never have another secret
as long as I live."
"I know," continued Cousin Deborah, "that the way in which you have
hitherto been brought up has made you timid and reserved. You have
always been so severely treated for every little fault and mishap, that
you have fallen into the habit of concealing your faults, and even of
lying to hide them. Now this is a very sad habit, and one of which you
must take great pains to break yourself. It is cowardice, and leads to
a great deal of meanness and wickedness."
"Yes, I know," said Lucy. "It made me tell lies about the thimble; and
I did use to tell a great many to Aunt Bernard, I know; but, oh, Cousin
Debby, if you knew how she used to punish me for the least little
thing! She would not let me have one bit of drink with my meals for a
whole week once, because I spilled some milk on my slip; and it was her
speaking sharply to me that made me spill it, too. Oh, it did seem as
if I should choke just eating dry crust for my breakfast and supper!" *
* A fact.
"I know all that, Lucy, and that has been an excuse for you heretofore;
but it will be so no longer. I want you to feel, my child, how mean and
wicked it is to tell a lie, whether it is to hide a fault or to escape
punishment; and I wish you to have enough confidence in me to come to
me in all your troubles great and small. Will you not try to do this?"
"Yes, Cousin Debby." Lucy Was silent for a few minutes, leaning on her
cousin's breast. Then she said, softly, "Cousin!"
"Well, my love!"
"I should like to write out that piece of my father's letter for Aunt
Bernard."
"You shall do so, Lucy. Do you not feel now that you can add some words
of your own, telling poor Aunt Bernard that you forgive her for your
own part?"
"Yes, Cousin Debby. I feel differently now. But, cousin, I don't think
it would be true for me to say that I loved Aunt Bernard."
"You need not say so; but Lucy, can you not think of something for
which you ought to beg Aunt Bernard's pardon? Did you not do some wrong
things?"
"Yes, Cousin Debby, I know I did. What shall I write?"
"I shall not tell you what to say, Lucy. You shall write just what you
think and feel, and show it to me afterwards, if you please. Here is
paper, pens, and ink in my cabinet. You may sit down here and write,
while I put away my habit and my other things."
Lucy was just sitting down to write, when, glancing out of a
side-window, she exclaimed: "Oh, Cousin Debby, here comes Will Mattison
galloping up the avenue as hard as he can pelt, and waving his hat. And
all the church bells are ringing. Oh, what has happened?"
"I presume there is some news come from the war," said Cousin Debby.
"Let us go down and see. Do not tremble so, my dearest child, but look
up to your heavenly Father for strength."
"News! Madam and my lady! Great news from the war!" exclaimed Will,
throwing himself from his smoking horse at the hall door. "There has
been a great victory, and lord is safe and well! Here are letters come
from him. The man who brought them rode post from London, and his horse
was wearied out as well as himself."
"Thank God, my dear Lucy, your father is well!" said Cousin Deborah,
glancing at the hurried note. "Sit down and hear what he says."
Lucy was glad to sit down, for her limbs trembled too much to support
her. The letter was dated at Blenheim, the fourteenth day of August,
1704, and was as follows:—
"MY DEAREST DAUGHTER:—Yesterday being Sunday, the thirteenth day of
August, 1704, was fought the most dreadful battle I have ever yet
seen, resulting in a complete victory on our part over the French and
their allies. The carnage on both sides has been dreadful, but we have
suffered much less than the French. I have got off with a sabre cut on
my forehead, which is no great matter, but will not improve my beauty.
"Of the men who went with me from Stanton-Corbet, two or three are hurt
slightly, but none are killed save poor Jack Martin, who was shot down
close at my elbow, while behaving with great bravery. Tell his mother
from me that her son was a good soldier and a good man, and I make no
doubt is now in a better place. And do you, my love, see that both she
and poor Anne have proper mourning at my expense. The good widow must
henceforth have her cottage rent-free and a pension.
"I will write more particularly in a day or two. Such another Sunday
I trust never to pass. It would break your heart to see the village
of Blenheim, so neat and thriving a few days ago, now a smoking mass
of ruins, strewed with dead and disfigured corpses, and the poor
inhabitants scattered no one knows where, all their little property
destroyed or ruined. I can write no more now, as I must sent off this
within an hour. Let the messenger have good entertainment."
Tears of mingled thankfulness and grief streamed down Lucy's cheeks.
"Oh, I am so glad dear papa is safe! But poor, poor widow Martin, and
poor Anne! She was so certain that Jack would come safe out of the war
because the gipsy said so."
"Yes, and at the very time she was saying the words, poor Jack was
lying still and cold in his bloody grave," said Cousin Deborah. "You
see this battle happened a week ago last Sunday. And your father, whom
she threatened so, is safe and well, and the thimble is found. So much
for the gipsy's predictions."
"But, cousin, it is very odd about the thimble!" said Lucy, diverted
from her letter for a moment. "Where did you find it?"
"Standing on the table beside the box."
"I do not understand it," repeated Lucy. "It certainly was lying there
under the aloe-leaves when I went out with you that day."
"Perhaps Robbins picked it up and laid it upon the table," said Cousin
Deborah. "He might have done so, and then forgotten all about it, for
he grows more and more forgetful all the time. But now, my love, go and
write the good news to Aunt Bernard, while I look after poor Anne."
[Illustration: _Lady Lucy's Secret._
Great news from the wars.]
Lucy's own part of the letter was as follows:—
"DEAR AUNT BERNARD:—This came in a letter from my father last Tuesday,
and Cousin Deborah bade me write it out for you. We have got news this
day that there has been a great battle, and the English have beat,
and my papa is well, only he has got a cut on his face, but poor Jack
Martin, Anne's bachelor, is killed. Dear Aunt Bernard, I know I was a
naughty girl a great many times, and I hope you will forgive me, as I
do you. I hope you will excuse blots, for I cannot help crying when I
think about poor Jack Martin and his mother."
"That will do very well!" said Cousin Deborah, when Lucy showed her the
letter. "No, you need not copy it. Send it as it is."
So Lucy sent her little letter to Aunt Bernard; but I am sorry to say
she never received any answer.
When any one has gone on for many years like this poor, unhappy lady,
indulging the passions of anger, pride, and an unforgiving temper, the
heart sometimes becomes so hardened that it seems impossible to make
any impression upon it. Possibly Mrs. Bernard may have been sorry in
her own heart that she had been so cruel to Lucy, but she never said so.
When Anne had a little recovered from her grief at the loss of her
sweetheart, Cousin Deborah talked with her seriously about the fault
she had committed in helping Lucy to deceive, and in going with her to
meet the gipsy-woman. Anne acknowledged her error and promised to do
better. And Cousin Deborah took care to avoid all risk, by keeping Lucy
with herself till the child had framed the habit of being truthful and
open. This was not gained in a day, for bad habits are hard to overcome.
But Lucy was very much in earnest, and under Cousin Deborah's gentle
and wise government, she had few temptations to hide her faults and
mishaps. By degrees, she lost the frightened, crushed manner which had
grown upon her under Aunt Bernard's reign. She grew strong and active
in mind and body, and at the end of a year could work in the garden,
walk, ride, and run races as well as Polly Burgess herself.
Hannah, who now and then saw her playing with the little girls at
the rectory, or going about to see the poor people, reported to her
mistress that the child had grown a regular tomboy.
And when Lord Stanton came home at the end of a year, he professed
himself perfectly satisfied with the manners and appearance of his
daughter, and begged Cousin Deborah to take up her permanent residence
at the Court, and continue to superintend Lucy's education. Mrs. Corbet
made her arrangements accordingly, and she remained with Lady Lucy till
long after she was a married lady, with little ones of her own about
her.
Lucy never heard any news of her knife. The gipsies decamped on the
very day that the news came of the battle of Blenheim, nor did the same
tribe ever visit Stanton-Corbet again.
It turned out as Cousin Deborah had supposed, that old Robbins had
picked up the thimble and laid it on the table where Cousin Deborah
found it, and, as usual, had forgotten all about it the next minute.
Lucy used it every day, and never again forgot to put it in its place.
When Mrs. Bernard died, some years after, Lady Lucy gave old Margery a
pretty little cottage and garden, and to wait upon her, a little orphan
girl, the child of a fisherman from the cove below. This was the first
revival of the Stanton-Corbet almshouses, which had been founded by
another little girl, in the days of Queen Elizabeth, and of which we
may perhaps hear more some day.
Another cottage was inhabited by the Widow Martin, and a third by an
old soldier, who had accompanied Lucy's father all through the war, and
came home with only one leg, to die in his native village. Lucy found
great pleasure in visiting and working for these poor women, and her
sewing hours no longer seemed the most tiresome part of the day, when
she was making an apron for one, or a Sunday cap and apron for another
of her old friends.
THE END.
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