"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.