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.
Lady Lucy's Secret—Frontispiece.
Aunt Bernard stood transfixed with amazement and anger.
The Children of Stanton-Corbet Series.
[Year 1704]
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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]
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PHILADELPHIA:
AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION
NO. 1122 CHESTNUT STREET.
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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.
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.