"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.
image003
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 weaveWhen 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.
"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.
"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."
"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."