Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the
public domain.
THE
CHILDREN OF STANTON-CORBET;
OR,
_Tales of English Children_
FROM THE REIGN OF QUEEN MARY TO THAT OF
QUEEN ANNE.
[Illustration: _Lady Lucy's Secret—Frontispiece._
Aunt Bernard stood transfixed with amazement and anger.]
_The Children of Stanton-Corbet Series._
_[Year 1704]_
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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.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
LADY LUCY'S SECRET;
OR,
_The Gold Thimble._
———————
CHAPTER I.
I WONDER whether, if you had seen Lady Lucy sitting at her work that
warm August morning, you would have thought her a person to be envied.
She certainly looked very pretty, and not at all unhappy, as she sat
in her straight-backed chair, carrying her long-waisted, snugly-laced
little figure very upright, her shoulders down, and her chin drawn
in,—bridled, as the phrase went. In those days—for this was at the
beginning of the eighteenth century—great attention was paid to the
carriage of young ladies,—more than appears to be thought necessary
at the present time, to judge by the attitudes into which I often see
little girls throw themselves, even in company. They were taught to
sit and stand very upright, to carry their arms carefully, to turn out
their toes and hold up their heads. No stooping was permitted over
books or work; and while Lady Lucy was living with her aunt Bernard,
she used to have a bunch of knitting-needles stuck into her bodice, to
keep her from "poking" over her work.
Lady Lucy was young,—only a little past eleven years old,—and small
for her age: nevertheless, she was the rightful heir of the splendid
room in which she now sat, with its heavy carved furniture, its worked
tapestry hangings, and inlaid cabinets,—of the fine old house, Stanton
Court,—of the lovely gardens and shrubbery which lay stretched before
the windows, and the beautiful park, and many a farm and moorland
besides. She could only just remember her mother as a delicate lady,
with beautiful long black hair and dark eyes, who was very kind to her
and used to talk to her in a musical, soft-sounding language, which was
not English, nor at all like any tongue she ever heard nowadays. When
Lady Lucy learned to be confidential with Cousin Debby, she told her
of this strange language in which her mother used to talk; and Cousin
Debby informed her that the language was Italian, and that some day she
should learn it herself.
When Lucy thought of her mother, it was always as sitting down on the
floor to play with her, or hearing her say her prayers, or else as she
lay in her coffin all dressed in white, when Aunt Bernard would make
the child kiss the cold face, and called her an unfeeling, heartless
girl, because she had cried and screamed to get away and had declared
that that was not her mother. Lucy almost thought that she began to
hate Aunt Bernard from that moment. Certainly there was always war
between them from that day; and, though Aunt Bernard was the stronger
and compelled the child to obey, she never won her love.
It was not so very pleasant, after all, this being an heiress, with no
father or mother to love and pet one, no little sisters for playmates
to help dress the doll or nurse the kitten, or to make foxglove dolls
and cowslip-balls, or tell tales in the seat under the tall old elm.
Aunt Bernard said that, for her part, she meant to do her duty by
the child: there would be people enough to spoil and flatter her
by-and-by. I really think, too, that when she began she meant what she
said,—though she was perhaps mistaken as to what constituted her duty
but, as the time wore on, and she could not but see that Lucy disliked
her, she began in her turn to dislike Lucy and the poor child led a
hard life of it.
Aunt Bernard lived in a beautiful place. It was an old timbered house,
of which the beams were black with age and the plastered spaces between
marked off into patterns. There was a beautiful though not very large
garden, with green alleys and grass-plots, where Lucy would have liked
to play if she had been allowed, and where grew abundance of flowers.
At the bottom of the garden was a tall hedge, clipped close and smooth
like a wall, with arched openings leading through to another green,
beyond which, again, was a pretty stream where ducks and geese, and one
old swan, sailed up and down all day long.
Lucy would have enjoyed playing on the green, and sailing little boats
upon the stream, and throwing bits of bread to the waterfowls but she
was never allowed to do any of these things. If she ever ventured to
run or romp, she was reminded that she was a lady,—a countess in her
own right,—and that she must not demean herself like the parson's
little girls, who worked in the hay-field, or gathered cowslips for
wine in the meadows, or herbs and roots for their mother to distil
into medicines and cordials. Lucy used many times to wish that she had
been the daughter of that stout, good-natured gentleman and his plump,
rosy little wife, who walked to church every Sunday morning followed
by their ten children, two by two, and looking so happy and pleasant.
True, the little Burgess girls hardly ever seemed to have new gowns
or hoods, even for Sundays, and their weekday frocks were coarse and
mended but she was sure that Polly and Dulcie Burgess were much happier
than she was. But when she ventured to express this thought to Hannah,
her aunt's waiting-woman, Hannah reproved her sharply, and added that
it served Mrs. Kitty Lindsay right for marrying a poor parson, that she
should have such a host of children and nothing to keep them decent.
Poor Lucy could not make hay, or gather primroses in the lanes, or
carry jugs of skim-milk to the poor old people, as Polly Burgess did.
She must practise on her lute so many hours a day, instead of singing
sweet old country songs and ballads like Polly and her sister. She must
work at her sampler and her satin stitches so many hours more, and read
and write so much longer. She must read so many chapters in the Bible
aloud to Aunt Bernard, taking them as they came, whether it were a long
chapter of hard names and nothing else, or a beautiful story in the New
Testament. She must learn her lesson standing in the stocks to make her
turn her toes out, and carrying a heavy bag of beans upon her head that
she might attain a good carriage, or strapped up to a back-board or
lying flat upon the floor, to straighten her back.
If there was daylight enough after all this was done, she might walk up
and down the green path in the garden and around the shrubbery for a
certain length of time. There was one place in her walk where Lucy was
out of sight of the garden-windows for some little distance and here
she used to peep among the branches for the birds' nests, and strew for
the robin-redbreasts the few crumbs she could contrive to save from
her breakfast. There was a garden-seat, too, old and broken, where she
could venture to rest a few minutes and look at the sky or the water,
while she thought about her mother and wondered if she remembered her
poor little girl who was so very, very unhappy and lonely without her.
Lucy did not think so much about her father. She had only seen him
twice since she could remember, when he had come from the wars. She
thought he must have been a good man, because her mother had been so
happy when he came home; and she was sure he was kind to her and used
to give her rides upon his shoulder or his foot. She remembered, too,
the day when the news came of his death, and she had been dressed in
black and told it was for her dear papa who had been killed in the wars
abroad. But it was of her mother that she loved to think at such times,
even though the remembrance made her feel more unhappy than ever.
Poor little Lucy! It was a sad, irksome life. It would have been dull
enough if Aunt Bernard had been kind to her but she was not. She did
not love the little girl. She envied her because Lucy was rich, and
she herself poor, or, at least, not wealthy. She had hated her mother
before her, and she visited it on her little daughter. Lucy could never
do any thing right. Whether she sat or stood, ate or drank, worked,
read, or played, Aunt Bernard always saw something to find fault with.
Nor was fault-finding the worst. Aunt Bernard carried a fan with a long
whalebone handle, and there were few days in which the impression of
that whalebone was not printed upon Lucy's shoulders or arms, nor many
weeks during which she was not sent supperless to bed in the dark.
She would have fared worse than she did, if Margery, the cook, had
not pitied the child. Sometimes Margery would contrive to bring her
a cake or a biscuit; and when Mrs. Bernard went away on a visit with
her waiting-woman Hannah, Margery would make feasts for Lady Lucy in
the kitchen, and sometimes allow her to bake little cakes for herself.
These were Lucy's happy days, when she could sit in a corner of the
great chimney and watch the cook bustling about her work, or the
milkmaid bringing in her pails of fresh milk and carrying out buckets
of whey to the pigs. It made no difference to Lucy that her aunt always
forbade her going into the kitchen,—unless, indeed, it rather added
to her pleasure to think that she was disobeying Aunt Bernard and for
once having her own way. It was perhaps the worst result of that lady's
system of management that Lucy learned to take pleasure in deceiving
and outwitting her.
One day, however,—one memorable, miserable day,—all these surreptitious
feasts came to a sudden end. I will tell you about it particularly,
because it was the means of bringing about a great change in Lucy's
manner of life.
On this day Aunt Bernard set out in her carriage to make a visit at
Langham Hall, some twenty miles away. She was to stay over-night with
Lady Langham and return home the next evening. She left Lucy plenty of
work to do, and many injunctions as to her conduct, and threats as to
what would happen if she were disobedient.
Lucy stood demurely at the door and watched the carriage out of sight
and hearing. Then she started and ran like a hare down the garden, and
through the gate in the holly hedge, to the water-side, but presently
came running back to beg for some bits of bread to feed the swan.
"Bless the poor child!" said kind old Margery. "'Tis like a kitten
let out of a basket, to be sure. But, Lady Lucy, my dear, had you not
better do your tasks before you go to play?"
"I cannot do them all before my aunt comes home again,—no, not if I
were to work all night, Margery!" said Lucy, shaking her head. "And if
I have the least bit undone I shall be scolded and beaten as much as if
I had not touched them: so where is the use? I may just as well play
while I can."
"'Tis true what the child says," remarked Anne, the housemaid, as
Margery looked grave: "my mistress has left her marking and open-hem
enough for a grown woman, besides all her other tasks,—more shame to
her, I say, to have no feeling for her own flesh and blood! Never
mind, Lady Lucy: I will take hold of it when my work is done, and you
shall have one good play. But you must mind and wear your gloves and
your hood, and not break your nails and scratch your hands with the
brambles, or my mistress will find you out."
"I don't feel right about teaching and helping the child to deceive her
aunt," said Margery, when Lucy had rather unwillingly gone to seek her
hood.
"I don't care one pin," replied Anne, decidedly. "If my mistress
treated any of us with any confidence, or put any trust in one, it
would be different; but so long as she and Hannah are always spying
and prying about, and won't believe a word one says, even though it
should be gospel truth, why, they may just find out what they can, for
all me. I shall just sit down and do up the child's open-hem for her,
and my mistress may find out the difference if she can. It will not be
the first trick I have played her in my time,—nor you either, Mistress
Margery."
Margery sighed, and shook her head. She was not satisfied with Anne's
reasoning, nor did her own conscience acquit her in the matter, but she
was very fond of Lucy, and loved to see the child happy for once, as
she said. So she set about making currant buns and a gooseberry fool—an
old-fashioned country dish, than which there are few better—for Lucy's
supper. But Lucy was not destined to the enjoyment of these dainties.
She played in the garden and down by the brook as long as she could
see, forgetting for a while books, lute, and all the rest of her
torments. She talked to Polly Burgess across the stream, and watched
her as she milked her own little black Welsh cow, wishing all the time
that she had a cow to milk and take care of. At last she yielded to
Anne's entreaties that she would come in out of the dew and eat her
supper.
She had just settled herself comfortably at the little table which
Margery had set out in the corner, and was watching with quiet
satisfaction the toasting of the currant buns, when the door of the
kitchen was opened, and Aunt Bernard, entering quietly as usual, stood
transfixed with amazement and anger at the sight which met her eyes.
There was Lady Lucy, in the kitchen, actually leaning with both elbows
on the table, and her chin resting on her hands, watching Margery, who
was on her knees toasting the buns, and laughing and joking with old
Roger, the cow-man; while Anne had actually a whole new mould candle
lighted at her elbow, and was busily working at the open-hem ruffle!
Aunt Bernard had gone more than half her journey, when she was met by
a messenger sent to tell her that the family at Langham Hall were in
great trouble,—that the smallpox had broken out in the house, and my
lady's two daughters were down with that dreadful disease, for which in
those days no preventive was known. Of course all thought of the visit
was now out of the question, and Aunt Bernard turned homeward in no
good humour. It was destined to be a day of misfortunes; for about a
mile from home the carriage broke down, and Aunt Bernard was obliged to
walk home, in her best brocade and carriage-shoes, over a road far from
good in the best of times, and now sloppy and dirty from two or three
days' rain. It was in no placid mood, therefore, that she opened the
kitchen-door, to find her family in her absence violating almost every
rule she had ever laid down for them.
It was upon Lucy, as usual, that her wrath fell heaviest. The poor
child had never in all her sad life been so berated. Ladies in those
days were used to employ language for which in these a housemaid would
be dismissed; and when Aunt Bernard was angry there were few names too
hard to be bestowed upon Lucy. Nor was this the worst. Aunt Bernard
declared that Lucy was the true child of her mother, that foreign woman
who had deceived and ensnared her poor brother to his ruin; that her
mother had been a liar, and worse; and that Lucy was fast following in
her steps down to perdition.
As she went on, Lucy, who had seemed stunned at first, lifted up her
head and looked Mrs. Bernard steadily in the face, while her colour
rose, and her large black eyes flashed fire.
"Aunt Bernard, you are a wicked woman to speak so of my dear mother,"
said she. "Mamma was a lovely lady; and my father loved her. She is
an angel now; and when you call her bad names, it is you that are the
liar, and not she."
Aunt Bernard stood as if stunned, for a moment. Then she seized Lucy by
the arm.
"Down on your knees, this moment!" said she, sternly, and at the same
time trying to force her to kneel. "Down upon your knees, this moment,
and beg my pardon!"
"I will not!" returned Lucy, resisting with all her strength. "I will
never beg your pardon. I hate you, Aunt Bernard, with my whole heart! I
would rather live with the dogs in the parson's kennel than with you."
Aunt Bernard said no more, but, dragging Lucy out of the kitchen, and
up the stairs to a disused attic, she thrust her in by main force,
and shut the door behind her. The maids could only guess what passed
by hearing Lucy's cries and screams. Presently Aunt Bernard came
down-stairs and into the kitchen, expecting to find Anne and Margery in
a great fright She was mistaken.
"Mistress," said old Margery, rising, and standing before her with
folded arms, "is it your purpose to let that child remain all night in
that desolate chamber?"
"That is no business of yours, Margery; but, since you ask me, I
will tell you that it is my purpose to keep her a prisoner, and upon
prisoners' diet, and that of the sparest. She shall neither come out
of that room, nor shall she see other food than brown bread and water,
till she kneels to me and begs my pardon,—nor then, unless I see fit to
grant it. I will break that proud spirit, or I will know why. Nay, I
will not hear a word," she added, sternly, as she saw Margery preparing
to speak. "You and Anne will find you have done the child little good
with your coddlings and cossetings."
"Then, madam," said the old woman, not without dignity, "you will
please suit yourself with another cook. I have served you for many a
year, and did not think to leave you during my life; but I will never
stay under a roof where an orphan child is so treated. The day after
to-morrow is quarter-day: so you will please suit yourself with a cook."
"And with a housemaid also, mistress," said Anne. "'Tis well known that
an orphan's curse will bring destruction upon the proudest house; and
I, for one, have no wish to abide it. Every one knows how the lightning
struck Farmer Dobson's stacks and barns after he turned his wife's poor
daughter out of doors, and what happened to the uncle of the Babes in
the Wood."
Anne spoke according to the superstitions of the time; nor was Mrs.
Bernard's mind so free from it that a shudder did not pass over her
at the girl's bold words. But she was proud and obstinate,—firm and
dignified she called herself. Her own conscience told her that she was
cruel and unforgiving,—that she visiting on Lucy's head not so much the
child's fault as her own vexation. But she would not listen. Her evil
passions were aroused, and had become her masters.
"You must do as you please," said she, coldly. "I shall doubtless
find other servants in your place easier than you will find other
services,—especially at your age, Margery."
"I can't help that," said Anne, tossing her head. "Better a crust in
quietness than a full dish under the curse of the orphan."
Two or three days passed on, and nothing was seen of Lucy. She remained
shut up in her attic chamber, visited by her aunt or Hannah once a day,
with scanty and coarse provisions. Sometimes the girls, listening,
heard her sobbing as if her heart would break, sometimes moaning
faintly; but Mrs. Bernard kept close watch, and they could not get near
her.
"I can't stand this any longer," said Anne to Margery, the third day.
"The child will die before she will give way, and her blood will be on
all our heads. I shall go to Parson Burgess and tell him the story. He
is justice as well as parson; and we will see if something cannot be
done." *
* In England, the rector, or minister, of a parish is not unfrequently
a justice also.
"Do," said Margery. "No one can tell whether it will do any good; but
things must not go on as they are. I know my mistress's temper but too
well. It was just such a time as this with Lady Lucy which drove my
poor young master to sea, where he perished miserably."
It was not long before Anne was at the parson's gate, where she found
the children all assembled, some admiring and feeding with grass the
two beautiful horses which stood before the door, some watching half
timidly the negro servant who held them, and who was trying to coax
the youngest little girl to come to him. Anne's tale was soon told to
Polly, who, as the eldest, was exercising a sort of supervision over
the little ones.
"What a shame!" exclaimed the warm-hearted girl, as Anne concluded her
tale, which lost nothing from her manner of telling it. "Oh, if my
father were only alone! There is a great gentleman with him, who came
just now; and we must not interrupt him."
"Tell mother," said Dulcie, the second girl: "mother will know what to
do. And here she comes now."
Mistress Burgess listened to Anne's repetition of the sad tale.
"Isn't it a shame, mother?" exclaimed the girls. "Poor little Lady
Lucy!"
"Are you sure you are telling the truth, my girl?" asked Mistress
Burgess, bending her mild, penetrating eyes on Anne's face, and hushing
with an upraised finger the clamours of the children. "Recollect
yourself; for this is a matter of the last importance, and you are come
in the nick of time. The gentleman who arrived this morning is Lady
Lucy's father."
"Why, mamma, I thought he was dead long ago!"
"And so thought every one; but it turns out a mistake. He was wounded
and left for dead, and only recovered to find himself in a French
prison, where he has languished all these years till just now that he
has been exchanged; not by his own title,—for as Lord Stanton, he had
been condemned to death, and had only saved his life by taking the name
of his servant, who died in his cell. He has known naught of his own
family,—not even that his poor wife was dead."
Anne was not a little daunted when she found herself in presence of the
parson and his guest, the tall, stately soldier. But she was a girl
of spirit, and confident in the goodness of her cause; and she told a
simple, straight-forward story, from which all the cross-questioning of
Dr. Burgess and Lord Stanton did not cause her to vary an inch.
"I thank you, my girl," said Lord Stanton, at last. "I shall not forget
your services and, meantime, here is a token for you," (putting a gold
piece in her hand). "You will please say nothing of this at the Grange
till I come. I wish to see the state of things for myself, and will
follow you directly."
"And a nice surprise it will be for my mistress," thought Anne, as she
curtsied, and retired, well pleased with her day's work. "I am sure I
will say nothing to spoil it."
"Do you think this girl's tale can be true?" asked Lord Stanton. "I
know my sister Bernard for a hard, stern woman, who would have been my
last choice for a guardian; but this seems beyond belief."
"Her cousin, Sir James Warden, doubtless acted for the best," said
Dr. Burgess. "Mrs. Bernard has ever been counted an honourable woman,
though somewhat stern and severe, especially with children. I have
often pitied Lady Lucy, and would willingly have made her acquaintance,
that she might amuse herself with companions of her own age; but
her aunt has repelled all our advances. It may be that my good wife
and myself have erred is the opposite direction, and allowed too
much liberty to our young flock. I know that Mrs. Bernard is of that
opinion,—which probably is one reason that she will not allow Lady Lucy
to play with my girls, but I cannot think children spoiled who mind
their mother with a word or look, and come to their parents with all
their little secrets and confessions as freely as our young ones."
"Truly I should say not," returned Lord Stanton. "But I am impatient to
see my poor little daughter. May I so far trespass upon your kindness
as to ask Mrs. Burgess to take charge of her for a day or two till I
can make arrangements for keeping her at home?"
"Surely, surely, my lord,—if she can live as we do. I will mention the
matter to my wife."
Poor Lucy, on her hard bed, had fallen into an uneasy slumber, while
her bread and water stood almost untouched upon the table. The three
days of confinement and harsh treatment had made a great change in her
appearance. She was thinner and paler, with dark purple marks under her
eyes; and the scarlet traces of the blows she had received still showed
plainly upon her thin white neck and arms. She had seen from the window
her aunt go out for a walk, as usual, in the cool of the day, and had
waited, watching and hoping that Anne or Margery would find a chance to
speak to her through the key-hole, if no more. But no one came, and she
had cried herself to sleep.
She was suddenly awakened by the sound of several voices upon the
stairs. She distinguished Anne's, and then Hannah's, and then a stern,
manly voice, which said,—
"If you do not open the door without delay, I will break it in. I will
not be kept from my child."
Then the door was unlocked, and she saw Anne and Margery, Hannah,
looking frightened and angry, and a tall, richly-dressed gentleman,
whom she seemed directly to remember, and who caught her in his arms,
calling her his darling, his poor, motherless, abused child.
"Are you really my father,—my own father who was dead?" she asked, at
last, and leaning back to look at him.
"I am your own father, child, counted dead for so many years."
"And is mamma come alive again too?"
Lucy felt herself drawn into a closer embrace as her father whispered,—
"No, dear child: your precious mother cannot come again; but we shall
go to her."
"And will you take me away and let me live with you?" asked Lucy. "Oh,
papa, I will try to be so very good, if you will!"
"Yes, Lucy: you shall go with me this very night. Mistress Burgess will
receive you."
"The child must not be removed till my mistress returns," said Hannah,
tartly. "Her guardian put her in my mistress's care; and to him she is
answerable,—not to a stranger."
Lord Stanton rose.
"She shall be removed without one moment's delay," said he, firmly.
"I am her father. Let some one—you, my girl—" as he saw Anne—"bring
something in which to wrap her. I will answer to my sister for what I
do. Whether she can answer to me, is another matter."
Mrs. Bernard, returning from her walk, saw the servants and horses
standing at Dr. Burgess's door; but she thought nothing of it, except
to wonder what grand visitor had come to the parson's. Her meditations
had not been very pleasant. She was beginning to get over her fit of
anger, and to listen to two counsellors,—conscience and interest; and
from neither of them did she obtain a great deal of comfort.
Conscience told her that she had given way to passion; that she had
been harsh and cruel to a helpless child; that she had failed in her
trust, and had roused, in the usually timid and yielding girl, pride
and obstinacy equal to her own.
Interest told her that she had made an enemy of Lucy; that she had
failed to win the child's affection or confidence; that she had no hold
upon her but sheer physical force. Sir James Warden, Lucy's cousin and
guardian, might see fit to remove her at any time; and no doubt Lucy
would look upon change as for the better. The child herself would be
no great loss; but with her would go the three hundred pounds a year
allowed for her guardianship, and with that the carriage, the extra
servants, perhaps the very house in which she lived and which belonged
to the Stanton-Corbet estate.
She had no claim upon the property save what grew out of her care of
Lucy. She was the daughter of Lord Stanton's step-mother, and had been
brought up with him: that was all the relationship. It would have been
the part of wisdom, interest told her, to have acquired such a hold
upon the little girl's regards as would have given her a lifelong
influence over the young heiress. Instead of that, she had allowed her
hatred of her step-brother's foreign wife to cause her to tyrannize
over his daughter.
Lucy had never loved her, and she had long since lost even the slight
hold upon her respect which she had once possessed. It was probably
too late to mend matters now, even if her pride would have allowed her
to stoop to a child; but Mrs. Bernard resolved that Lucy should be
forgiven and released as if she had actually begged pardon, and that
henceforth she would allow her more liberty.
In this frame of mind she came home, to be met by the news that Lucy's
father had returned and carried her away, leaving a note to explain his
proceedings. What this note contained no one ever knew.
Mrs. Bernard read it and crushed it up in her hand without any remark.
Then she bade Hannah pack Lady Lucy's clothes and other possessions and
send them to the parsonage. She had all but idolized her step-brother,
and had shed many tears for his loss; but she took no steps to see him,
nor did she ever again mention his name. She continued for many years
living in the same house, seeing no company, never going out even to
church, and refusing to speak to any member of Dr. Burgess's family if
by any chance she met them.
She had indulged pride and self-will till they had become absorbing
passions over which she exerted no control. Some time after, Lady Lucy
made more than one effort to see and conciliate her aunt; but Mrs.
Bernard sternly repelled all her advances, and lived and died alone.
Meantime, Lady Lucy was most warmly received at the parsonage,
installed in the best room, and treated with all the care and kindness
which Mrs. Burgess and her daughters had to bestow, till her father
came to carry her home to Stanton Court, where he had engaged an
elderly lady—a cousin of his mother—to take care of her. Lord Stanton
stayed a few days with Lucy, and then went abroad once more, leaving
his daughter to the care of Cousin Deborah Corbet.