"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."