"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."
"Yes, and at the very time she was saying the words, poor Jack was
lying still and cold in his bloody grave," said Cousin Deborah. "You
see this battle happened a week ago last Sunday. And your father, whom
she threatened so, is safe and well, and the thimble is found. So much
for the gipsy's predictions."
"But, cousin, it is very odd about the thimble!" said Lucy, diverted
from her letter for a moment. "Where did you find it?"
"Standing on the table beside the box."
"I do not understand it," repeated Lucy. "It certainly was lying there
under the aloe-leaves when I went out with you that day."
"Perhaps Robbins picked it up and laid it upon the table," said Cousin
Deborah. "He might have done so, and then forgotten all about it, for
he grows more and more forgetful all the time. But now, my love, go and
write the good news to Aunt Bernard, while I look after poor Anne."
[Illustration: _Lady Lucy's Secret._
Great news from the wars.]
Lucy's own part of the letter was as follows:—
"DEAR AUNT BERNARD:—This came in a letter from my father last Tuesday,
and Cousin Deborah bade me write it out for you. We have got news this
day that there has been a great battle, and the English have beat,
and my papa is well, only he has got a cut on his face, but poor Jack
Martin, Anne's bachelor, is killed. Dear Aunt Bernard, I know I was a
naughty girl a great many times, and I hope you will forgive me, as I
do you. I hope you will excuse blots, for I cannot help crying when I
think about poor Jack Martin and his mother."
"That will do very well!" said Cousin Deborah, when Lucy showed her the
letter. "No, you need not copy it. Send it as it is."
So Lucy sent her little letter to Aunt Bernard; but I am sorry to say
she never received any answer.
When any one has gone on for many years like this poor, unhappy lady,
indulging the passions of anger, pride, and an unforgiving temper, the
heart sometimes becomes so hardened that it seems impossible to make
any impression upon it. Possibly Mrs. Bernard may have been sorry in
her own heart that she had been so cruel to Lucy, but she never said so.
When Anne had a little recovered from her grief at the loss of her
sweetheart, Cousin Deborah talked with her seriously about the fault
she had committed in helping Lucy to deceive, and in going with her to
meet the gipsy-woman. Anne acknowledged her error and promised to do
better. And Cousin Deborah took care to avoid all risk, by keeping Lucy
with herself till the child had framed the habit of being truthful and
open. This was not gained in a day, for bad habits are hard to overcome.
But Lucy was very much in earnest, and under Cousin Deborah's gentle
and wise government, she had few temptations to hide her faults and
mishaps. By degrees, she lost the frightened, crushed manner which had
grown upon her under Aunt Bernard's reign. She grew strong and active
in mind and body, and at the end of a year could work in the garden,
walk, ride, and run races as well as Polly Burgess herself.
Hannah, who now and then saw her playing with the little girls at
the rectory, or going about to see the poor people, reported to her
mistress that the child had grown a regular tomboy.
And when Lord Stanton came home at the end of a year, he professed
himself perfectly satisfied with the manners and appearance of his
daughter, and begged Cousin Deborah to take up her permanent residence
at the Court, and continue to superintend Lucy's education. Mrs. Corbet
made her arrangements accordingly, and she remained with Lady Lucy till
long after she was a married lady, with little ones of her own about
her.
Lucy never heard any news of her knife. The gipsies decamped on the
very day that the news came of the battle of Blenheim, nor did the same
tribe ever visit Stanton-Corbet again.
It turned out as Cousin Deborah had supposed, that old Robbins had
picked up the thimble and laid it on the table where Cousin Deborah
found it, and, as usual, had forgotten all about it the next minute.
Lucy used it every day, and never again forgot to put it in its place.
When Mrs. Bernard died, some years after, Lady Lucy gave old Margery a
pretty little cottage and garden, and to wait upon her, a little orphan
girl, the child of a fisherman from the cove below. This was the first
revival of the Stanton-Corbet almshouses, which had been founded by
another little girl, in the days of Queen Elizabeth, and of which we
may perhaps hear more some day.
Another cottage was inhabited by the Widow Martin, and a third by an
old soldier, who had accompanied Lucy's father all through the war, and
came home with only one leg, to die in his native village. Lucy found
great pleasure in visiting and working for these poor women, and her
sewing hours no longer seemed the most tiresome part of the day, when
she was making an apron for one, or a Sunday cap and apron for another
of her old friends.
THE END.