In a small village near the town of Honiton, in Devonshire, there
lived a widow and her son. The old woman had, till her sight failed
her, not only earned a sufficient livelihood, but had saved a little
money, by making that kind of lace for the manufacture of which
Honiton is so widely famed. When, from the infirmities of age, she
could no longer ply her vocation successfully, it happened
fortunately that her son, by his labour as a farm-servant, was able
to make up the deficiency. He was a fine spirited young fellow, who
went through his laborious occupations with a good-will and
cheerfulness which was so satisfactory to his employer that he
determined to advance, whenever opportunities offered, so assiduous
a servant and good a son.
Some two years before our story opens, it happened that a young
woman, the daughter of a decayed farmer in the southern part of the
county, came to superintend the dairy of Luke Damerel's master. It
was not unnatural that the buxom lass and the young man should form a
mutual attachment. As they were both very well-conducted persons,
their love passages were looked upon with a favourable eye both by
Dame Damerel and by the farmer's wife, Mrs Modbury, though neither
openly sanctioned it, for prudence' sake. Luke and Lucy, however,
loved on, as they thought, in secret, determining not to reveal their
mutual affection till they should be placed in circumstances to get
married. Things remained thus for more than a year and a half, when
Farmer Modbury's wife died, and other circumstances occurred which
induced him to promote Luke to a more lucrative and responsible
situation on the farm. Shortly after the demise of his wife also, he
found it expedient to give Lucy, in addition to her dairy duties, the
sole charge of the housekeeping.
With the rise in his fortunes, Luke's thoughts were directed to the
accomplishment of his dearest hope, and he revealed his passion to
his mother, consulting her on the propriety of the step he wished to
take; which was simply to marry Lucy, and bring her to live in the
cottage. The old dame was not surprised at the proposal, for she
expected it to be made from the day Luke's wages were increased. She
had made up her mind what to advise, and did not shrink from advising
it, although it would not be agreeable to her son. 'Luke,' she said,
'you must still wait. Your earnings are not sufficient to keep Lucy
comfortably; and she, you know, would have to give up her place,
which is now a good one. So you would not only be injuring yourself,
but her also.'
Luke fired up at this, and unkindly hinted that his mother did not
wish to have a companion to share their home. The old dame, though
much hurt, denied that any such feeling swayed her, and advised him
to consult Lucy herself. Dame Damerel had that confidence in the
girl's good sense and prudence, that she was sure even Lucy would not
consent to marry so soon as Luke wished.
In no very amiable mood the lover sought his mistress at the
farmhouse. He went into the kitchen, and not finding Lucy there,
inquired of one of the maids where she was. With a sly ominous
expression the girl replied 'that _Miss_ Lucy was in the best parlour
making tea for master.' This information gave poor Luke a sort of
panic. He trembled, turned pale, and hastily retreated from the
house. Discontented thoughts filled his mind. 'No doubt,' he said
almost aloud, as he walked homewards--'no doubt she'll _not_ consent
when I propose to marry her, though I can keep her. Farmer Modbury
will be a better match for her than a poor hard-working lad like me.
But I'll see about that--it shall be now or never. If she won't marry
me in a week, she never shall!' In truth, Luke had been feeling a
pang of jealousy creep over him ever since Lucy was promoted to be
Modbury's housekeeper; and that she should be admitted alone with him
into the best parlour to make his tea, confirmed what were previously
only suspicions. On entering the cottage, his wild looks almost
frightened his mother; but he was silent as to the cause, and went
sullenly to bed.
Farmer Modbury kept up the good old Devonshire custom of dining with
all the people in his employment; and the day after, when Luke with
the rest of his companions sat at the table, he watched the actions
and countenances of Lucy and her master, to catch new causes for the
tormenting feeling which possessed him. The meal concluded, he
followed the girl to the dairy, as was his custom; for a short and
sweet interview could always be snatched at that time. The present
one was, however, the reverse. In a hard tone of voice, and with an
abrupt manner, Luke inquired if she were ready to have him? The girl
frankly answered, 'Of course I am, Luke; but what should make you ask
the question on such a sudden!'
Luke's jealousy was a little assuaged by Lucy's open and confiding
manner, and becoming more calm, he told her his plans. 'It will never
do, Luke,' she replied.' Besides, my father, whom I must send to
about it, would not consent. No, no, we must wait.'
'Wait! for what, I should like to know? To give master, I suppose,
a chance of--of--'
'Of what, Luke?'
'Why,' said Luke, worked up into a sort of frenzy by the very
thought--' why, of asking you to take poor dead-and-gone missus's
place!'
The colour mounted to Lucy Fennel's face. She cast a reproachful look
on her lover, and seemed ready to cry; but woman's pride came to her
aid, and she left the dairy, as if afraid to hear another of Luke's
terrible words. Had the young man not gone out immediately, he might
have heard ill-suppressed sobs issuing from the room into which the
maiden had shut herself. 'She is afraid to face me,' said Luke to
himself as he crossed the courtyard. 'No, no, she can't deceive me,
though she is trying.'
The directions Damerel gave to the workmen that afternoon were so
injudicious, that his master happening to overhear him tell a ditcher
to fill up a drain which ought to have been opened, gave him a severe
reprimand. Luke received what was said with the worst feelings,
continually repeating to himself, 'Ah, he has a spite against me now.
He did not make that girl his housekeeper for nothing. _I'm_ not
wanted here, I can see.'
When work was over, it happened that as Luke was returning to his own
cottage he met young Larkin, a neighbouring farmer's son, who asked
him to accompany him to Honiton, where he was going to 'see the
sodgers,' a regiment being about to pass through the town on its way
to form part of Plymouth garrison. To beguile the care which
tormented him, he gladly consented, and having gone home to put on
his Sunday clothes, was soon equipped for the evening's expedition.
The two friends had to pass Modbury's parlour window, and it was
tea-time. Luke cast an inquisitive glance towards it, and trembled
when he saw the blind being slowly pulled up. Presently it revealed
the figure of Lucy, very nicely dressed with a new and handsome cap.
Something having prevented the blind from being drawn quite to the
top, Lucy mounted on the window-seat to adjust it, and when about to
descend, Luke plainly saw his master come forward, give her one hand,
while with the other he assisted her down by the waist! Damerel
grasped the tree he was resting against for support; a film came over
his eyes; but a few rough jokes from Larkin recovered him, and
hearing the military band in the distance, he endeavoured to forget
his cares, and trudged on towards Honiton.
Meanwhile, the moment Lucy had finished her duties at the tea-table,
she hastened to Damerel's cottage, in the hope, not of seeing her
lover, but his mother, alone. The old dame, perceiving her pale and
in low spirits, thought she divined the cause, by supposing the girl
was sorrowing at the imprudence of the step Luke had proposed to her.
'Well, well,' said the kind old woman, 'things may not be so bad
after all, Lucy. And since Luke has set his heart so much upon it,
and you, I am sure, are nothing loath, we must try and manage it.
I'll tell you what I've been thinking, girl. You see the great
mischief will be your being obliged to give up your place at the
farm; now, I know a plan by which that loss may be mended. You are a
quick, handy maid; and suppose--suppose'--and here the good old woman
took Lucy's hands in hers--'suppose I teach you lace-making?'
These words poured a light into Lucy's heart which seemed to banish
all her grief. The means of rendering herself independent of her
present situation was all she wished for. She loved Luke tenderly,
dearly, and with a fervent, virtuous desire, wished to become his
wife. This wish had grown much stronger since her painful interview
with him, not only because she wished to prove she was ready to
sacrifice everything for his sake, but for another and more
perplexing reason. Her master had paid her attentions that evening
which left no doubt on her mind that _he_ desired her for his wife.
When Mrs Damerel heard the news, she was much distressed. 'Oh, it is
too bad!' she exclaimed, 'to think that my Luke should be the means
of preventing you from marrying so well--you who are worthy of any
man.'
'Do not think of that; I could not be happy with one I do not love.
So now, dear mother--for I will always call you so--let me hear what
plan you propose.'
'Well, instead of talking idly, as we always do when you come to see
us, you shall let me teach you the lace-making. Come every night, and
in a month or two I shall be able to put you in a way to earn quite
as much as you do now at Farmer Modbury's. When this is the case, we
must see about getting yourself and Luke asked in church, for surely
both your earnings put together will be enough to keep you
comfortably.'
'But will not the farmer bear some enmity to poor Luke?'
'I will answer for him, girl, I have known him longer than he has
known himself. I nursed him, and I can say with truth that a
better-hearted man does not live. Should he again offer you any
civilities, tell him the whole truth, and I'll warrant he will not
repeat them.'
That evening Lucy tripped home with a light heart. When she retired
to rest, she built many an air-castle of future happiness.
The next morning, as the home-servants of Modbury's farm were going
to their daily toil, they found a crowd round Damerel's cottage door.
On inquiring into the cause, they were told that Luke had in a fit of
despair enlisted as a soldier, and that the news had wrought so
violently on the feelings of his mother, that it was thought she
could never recover!
The scene inside the cottage was painfully distressing. The old dame
was lying on a bed with her clothes still about her, showing that she
had not gone to rest the whole night. The village doctor was by her
side, having just bled her, whilst everything strewed about the room
indicated that the always revolting operation had but recently been
performed. The neighbours, as they crowded round the door, denounced
Luke's conduct as rash and heartless. In the midst of their
denunciations they were joined by another, to whom every word they
uttered was as a death-wound. It was Lucy.
Whoever has had the misfortune of often seeing women placed in sudden
difficulties, or overtaken by an unforeseen misfortune, must have
remarked that they occasionally act with unexpected firmness. They
frequently show a calmness of manner and a directness of purpose,
forming quite an exception to their every-day demeanour. It is after
the danger is over, or the first crisis past, that they break down,
as it were, and show themselves to belong to the weaker sex. Thus it
was with Lucy. When she entered the cottage, she had a full knowledge
of the death-blow which had been inflicted on her hopes of future
happiness. Still, she seemed calm and collected. When she took the
basin from the surgeon to bathe Mrs Damerel's temples herself, her
hand shook not, and she performed the kindly office as neatly as if
no misfortune had befallen her. When she went to the door to entreat
the neighbours to stand away from it, that sufficient air might be
admitted into the room, her voice, though rather deeper in tone than
usual, was calm and firm. Had she not occasionally pressed her hand
tightly against her brow, as if to cool its burning agony, you would
have thought that she suffered no further anxiety than that which is
usually felt whilst attending the sick.
It was, however, when she was left alone with the exhausted, almost
senseless mother, that the tide of grief took its full course. Lucy
wept like one distraught. Through the deep, black future which lay
before her, she could see no gleam of hope or sunlight. She unjustly
upbraided herself for having, however innocently, given Luke cause of
suspicion. The weight of blame which she took to herself was almost
insupportable. 'I have been his ruin!' she exclaimed, burying her
face in his mother's bosom.
When the old dame had strength to speak, she whispered Lucy not to
give way, but to bear up against it. The past, she wisely said, was
incurable; 'We must keep our senses whole for the future. While we
keep heart, there is no fear of our seeing him again, yet.'
The story reached Farmer Modbury as he was sitting down to breakfast.
He was deeply shocked even when he? knew no more than that Luke had
enlisted; but when, on visiting the cottage, the whole truth was
explained to him by Lucy, he felt both grief and disappointment. He
was, however, determined not to abandon his suit as hopeless, and
returning home, wrote to her father (he was a widower), explaining
what had happened, and giving a frank exposition of his own
honourable views as regarded Lucy. _'No_ doubt,' he concluded his
epistle, 'she will soon forget this early and unhappy attachment.'
Modbury was a shrewd man, and a clever farmer, but he knew very
little about women's hearts.
From that day he was extremely kind and considerate to Lucy.
Perceiving how much happier the girl was when she returned from
visiting Mrs Damerel than at other times, Modbury diminished her
labours by employing another dairymaid, so that Lucy might have more
leisure, which he had no objection should be spent with the invalid.
One morning while Lucy was preparing the household dinner, a message
arrived from the cottage. Her presence was desired there immediately.
Lucy lost no time, and was soon in her accustomed seat at the
bed-head. Mrs Damerel placed a letter in her hands. It was from her
son. With beating heart Lucy opened it, and after time sufficient to
master the emotions which the sight of Luke's handwriting caused her,
she proceeded to read it aloud. It ran thus:
'MAIDSTONE BARRACKS, KENT.
'MY DEAREST MOTHER--I have at last found enough courage to take up my
pen, hoping this will find you in good health, as it leaves me at
present. I hope you have forgiven me for what I have done. I send you
two pounds, part of the bounty I received for enlisting. Do not be
afraid, my dear mother, that whilst I live you shall want.
'When I went to Honiton, I was persuaded to enlist, after the
soldiers had passed through, by a sergeant of a horse-regiment, and I
took the king's money; so I am now a private in the --th Dragoons. I
am rough-riding every day, and expect to be passed as fit for regular
duty soon, when I shall be draughted off to the Indies, where our
head-quarters are. I should be very comfortable if it was not for
thinking about home, so much. They have found out I am a good judge
of horses, and know all about their complaints, so the sergeant-major
told me yesterday I shall get on very well in the Indies, if I keep a
sharp look-out.
'Dear mother, I shall see you again when I come back--I know I shall;
and we shall be happy together; for now I have nobody else to care
about upon the earth. I hope she will be happy, for she deserves all
this world can afford, and I have always found Mr Modbury a kind
master, so I am sure he will make her a kind husband. Dear mother,
there is Tom Larkin, who promised me, after I had listed, that he and
his sister Sarah would look in upon you sometimes, and help you. May
God bless you, my dear mother. My heart was well-nigh broken; but my
comrades have been very kind to me, and I want for nothing. Good-bye,
mother, and believe me your ever-affectionate son,