CHAPTER II.

LUCY had been about five weeks under the charge of Cousin Deborah at the time our story begins,—weeks so quiet and happy, so free from care and fault-finding, that the little girl sometimes wondered whether she were living in the same world. Nothing seemed the same about her but Anne, who had come from the Grange to live at Stanton Court and attend upon Lady Lucy.

Cousin Deborah, for her part, would have preferred to do without Anne. She foresaw that Lucy would have formed undesirable and wrong habits under such a rule as that of Aunt Bernard, and she thought it would be more easy to break up these habits if the little girl had no one about her but such persons as she knew and could trust. But Anne's services had been too important to go unrewarded: she had lost her place from her devotion to Lady Lucy's interests, and she was devotedly attached to the child: so Cousin Deborah resolved to make the best of it.

It may easily be guessed that Anne was not at all unwilling to accompany Lady Lucy, or to exchange the close housekeeping of the Grange for the liberality of Stanton Court. Margery might have come, too, and both Lady Lucy and Anne begged her to do so; but Margery refused.

"I am not going to leave my old mistress, now that she is in trouble and disgrace," said she. "I shall stay and stand by her. She will find it hard to suit herself, with all these stories flying about the country. She is growing infirm in body and, I believe, in mind; and I will not leave her with no one about her whom she can trust but Hannah."

The stories to which Margery referred were exaggerated and distorted accounts of her mistress's treatment of Lady Lucy. The maids at the parsonage had gossiped, of course, as well as the milkmaid at the Grange. Every one in the village knew that Lady Lucy's father had found his daughter locked in an upper room alone, with nothing to eat but a crust of brown bread,—some said, not even that,—and had taken her away without seeing his sister or waiting for his child's clothes to be packed up. This was a fine nucleus for the story, which grew, like a snowball, every time it was turned over, till many people actually believed that Mrs. Bernard had gone deliberately to work to kill her niece by cruelty, that she might have the use of her property.

"I am sure it is no more than she deserves," said Anne, tossing her head.

"Perhaps so; but, Anne, if we come to talk of deserts, where should any of us be?"

"She has got Hannah," said Anne.

"Yes; and that is another reason for my staying. I don't trust Hannah. No, Anne: I love Lady Lucy, but I shall not leave Mrs. Bernard. Her husband was kind to mine when he needed kindness; her son was my foster-child, and dear to me as my own; and, for their sakes as well as hers, I shall stay."

And so Margery stayed; and, when Hannah left, she became in time the sole servant in the lonely, deserted Grange House, where Mrs. Bernard wore her life away in bitter recollections, with nothing to sustain her but her own pride and resentment.

Lucy had learned no lessons, nor performed any tasks, as she was accustomed to call them, since she came to Stanton Court. She had suffered greatly in health under Aunt Bernard's discipline, and especially under the last shock. She was timid, nervous, and depressed, afraid to speak, afraid to make a natural motion in presence of her elders, unable to imagine that any one could be kind to her or love her except Anne. She slept badly, and awoke feverish and without appetite; she was very soon tired with any exertion; and she had all the time a little, hard cough.

Cousin Debby was used to children. She had brought up six girls of her own, all of whom she had nursed through a somewhat delicate and sickly childhood, to be women of at least average health and strength. She saw that of lessons Lucy had lately had more than enough; and she wisely concluded that Lucy's health and spirits were to be cultivated, even at the expense of her present improvement in knowledge.

"A great many women get through the world pretty well without knowing much either of books or music," said she to her cousin, Lord Stanton; "but weak backs and nerves, and fits of vapours and hysterics, unfit a woman for any usefulness whatever. The child has been overworked, and needs rest."

And Lord Stanton had agreed with Cousin Deborah, and had bid her take her own course with Lucy. So, for the first few weeks, Lucy did little but run about the garden and grounds, and take rides on the donkey, with Cousin Debby walking by her side. But this morning Cousin Debby had decided she should begin some lessons again. So Lucy had learned a spelling-lesson, and practised on her lute for half an hour, and was now to do her task of sewing.

"What sort of work have you done most of?" asked Cousin Debby.

"Embroidery, and open-hem, and marking, and fine darning," said Lucy; "and oh, Cousin Debby, how I hate them all!"

Lucy looked scared as soon as she had said the words. Such a speech made in Aunt Bernard's hearing would have insured her an hour's additional work, if not a slap from the fan handle across her fingers; but Cousin Debby only smiled. She was glad to see that Lucy was beginning to feel a little freedom with her.

"Suppose, then, we try something else," said she. "The poor woman who lives at the porter's lodge has a pair of twins, born this morning; and she is but poorly provided with clothes for them. Suppose I cut out a flannel petticoat for one of them and show you how to make it?"

"I shall like that," said Lucy. "Dolly Burgess used to do things for poor people, I know. And please, cousin, do you think I might carry it to her myself? I should so like to see a little baby near by."

"You shall carry it to the baby yourself certainly," said Cousin Debby, smiling; "and you shall go with me this afternoon, when your sewing is done, to take the poor woman some broth which cook is making for her. So now be industrious, and see how much you will accomplish while I am gone. Have you a work-box of your own?"

"No, cousin: I kept my working-things in a corner of Aunt Bernard's table-drawer."

Cousin Debby took a bunch of keys from the little basket of keys which hung at her side, and, opening a tall cabinet which stood at one side of the fireplace, she took out a beautiful box. The sides were formed of ivory, inlaid with many curious figures in a black wood, which Cousin Debby told Lucy was ebony. She set the box on the little table in the bow-window where Lucy was sitting, and unlocked it by the little gold key which hung to the handle.

Lucy uttered an exclamation of delight. There were scissors and knives of various kinds, with gold and enamelled handles; there were bobbins, tooth-picks, and stilettos, and more other implements than you can mention, all ornamented in the same way, and a beautiful little crystal bottle of attar of roses, which still retained its perfume.

"This was your dear mother's work-box," said Cousin Debby; "and some day it shall be yours."

"When?" asked Lucy.

"When I see whether you are careful enough to be trusted with such valuable things," answered Cousin Debby. "You may keep it here upon the table, if you please, and lay your own thimble and scissors in this vacant place. I suppose your mother's thimble will be too large for you. Try it on."

Lucy slipped her finger into it.

"It is too large but I can wear it," said she. "Please let me use it this morning, Cousin Debby."

"No, not this morning. You might lose it; and, besides, there is a hole in it, which needs mending. I will send it to Exeter, when I can, and have it repaired and made a little smaller. Now go at your work; and if you have finished it by the time I come down, we will go to the lodge and see the little twins."

"What are you going to do, Cousin Debby?"

"I am going into the green chamber, to look over some drawers."

Left to herself, Lucy worked very industriously for half an hour. She kept the work-box open before her, and now and then she glanced at the contents. But Lucy was not used to working without being over-looked; and she had never been trusted in all her life.

Presently she dropped her work in her lap, and began to take out the articles in the work-box one by one and lay them upon the table.

At last she put on the thimble and began sewing with it. She took a few stitches with great satisfaction,—when all at once the eye of the needle found out the hole in the top of the thimble, and entered pretty deeply under Lucy's finger-nail. Now, there are few things more provocative of hasty action than a prick under the nails. Lucy dropped her work and gave her hand a sudden shake,—when off flew the thimble through the long window which opened to the terrace.

At the same moment she heard Cousin Debby coming down-stairs, stopping on the landing to talk with the housemaid. Hastily restoring the other articles to their places, Lucy peeped out to see what had become of the thimble. There it lay, just under one of the low flower-vases which adorned the terrace, half hidden under a broad-leaved plant which grew there. Lucy could see it plainly, and was just going to step out of the window to recover it, when Cousin Debby came out at the hall door and along towards the bow-window.

Hastily Lucy shrank back, and resumed her work, her fingers trembling and her heart sick with fear. Cousin Debby would no doubt see the thimble, and then all would be over.

"Well, Lucy, how has the work progressed?" asked Cousin Debby, pausing before the open window.

"Not very well," said Lucy, trying to speak quietly. "I pricked my finger, and I had to stop and wait for it to be done bleeding."

"Let me see," said Cousin Debby. "Why, that is a deep prick! You had better not sew any more just now, lest it should inflame and be troublesome. Run and get your hood, and we will walk down to the lodge."

Lucy's heart sank deeper still; but she dared not disobey. The best way would have been to tell the plain truth and pick up the thimble openly; but this she dared not do. She had been so severely treated for the least fault, that she had learned the habit of concealing every thing. She went up-stairs and put on her hood, expecting all the time to hear her name sharply called and feel her poor little fingers and arms tingle and burn from the application of a whalebone or ratan. Nothing of the sort happened, however.

When she came down, Cousin Debby was standing talking with the old gardener about some plants.

"You will be sure and remember, Robbins?" said she.

"Yes, madam,—oh, yes: I never forgets any thing," said Robbins.

"I dare say he will never think of it again," said Cousin Debby, as they walked away. "The poor old man grows more and more forgetful every day."

Lucy had a pleasant walk, and enjoyed very much seeing the dear little babies and holding one of them in her arms. The good woman lamented her want of baby-clothes; and Cousin Debby promised to see what she could find for them.

"You did not tell her that I was making a petticoat for the baby," Lucy ventured to observe, as they left the lodge to return home.

"No," replied Cousin Debby: "I thought it better to wait till the petticoat was finished. Something might happen to prevent your sewing, or you might be wanting in perseverance and then the poor woman would be disappointed. Do you know the meaning of 'perseverance'?"

"No, ma'am."

"Why do you not ask, then?"

"Aunt Bernard would never let me ask questions," replied Lucy. "She said it was not proper."

"There are times when it is not proper for little girls to ask questions," said Cousin Debby,—"as, for instance, in company, or when they interrupt their elders by so doing. But, Lucy, I want you always to feel free to ask me any questions you please when we are alone together. I may not always see fit to answer you; but I shall never be displeased at your asking, so that you do it in a proper spirit."

"What do you mean by a proper spirit?" Lucy ventured to inquire.

"Perhaps I can illustrate the matter best by telling you what is not a proper spirit. If I should tell you it was time to go to bed, and you should ask, in a fretful tone, 'Why must I go to bed now? Why cannot I sit up as long as you do?' That would be an improper spirit. But if you should obey directly, and should then ask, 'Why must little girls go to bed earlier than grown-up people?' because you wished to know the reason, I should then be ready to tell you all I know about the matter.

"Sometimes children ask impertinent questions,—as if you were to see me reading a letter and should ask whom it was from. Sometimes, too, they ask silly and troublesome questions, just to hear themselves talk,—which is a very disagreeable habit.

"Your asking the meaning of the word 'perseverance' would be a proper question; and I am very glad to answer it. To persevere in any thing you undertake to do is to keep at it till it is finished. If you work steadily at the baby's petticoat at all proper times till it is done, you will persevere. Now do you understand?"

"Yes, ma'am," replied Lucy. "I think it is pleasant to understand."

All this time the thought of the thimble was in Lucy's mind, lying under all her other thoughts, as a stone lies under a running stream. It did not make her so unhappy as it ought to have done; for, unluckily, Lucy was used to having such concealments and to hiding her faults as long as possible. She was not miserable at the thought that she had disobeyed and deceived her cousin: she only thought how she would be punished if the thimble were lost.

Aunt Bernard had never taught her to exercise her conscience—to do things because they were right, or refrain from them because they were wrong. But she felt in a great hurry to get back to the Hall, in order that she might find the thimble and restore it to its place before it was missed.

She was, therefore, not very well pleased when Cousin Debby said that, as the day was cool, they would walk to the village and call upon the rector's family, adding, "You will be glad to see Polly and Dulcie again; and, as little Willy Mattison is here, we will send him to bring down the donkey, that you may ride back."

Lucy would much rather have gone home; but she dared not object. She could not see any way to help herself: so she put the thought of the thimble as far away as she could, and resolved to make the best of matters.

The village church and parsonage lay about a mile from Stanton Court, and the walk to it was a lovely one,—through the woods, and along the banks of that very stream by which Lucy had stolen away to feed the swans. Now and then they passed a tiny waterfall; and more than once a lovely little spring came dripping down the rock, and collected in a little basin before it ran into the brook. On a stone by one of these springs sat a square wooden cup, roughly hewn out of a piece of hard wood; and here they stopped to drink. Cousin Debby knew the names of many of the plants, and the ways and habits of the birds and insects, and she told Lucy many interesting tales of their doings and customs. It would have been a very delightful walk if it had not been for that unlucky thimble and, even as it was, Lucy enjoyed it greatly, as well as the visit which followed.

Polly and Dulcie were strong, healthy, high-spirited girls, and, with their warm hearts and truthful ways, were as good companions as could be found for the poor, crushed, reserved little lady. So Cousin Debby thought; and she resolved to encourage a friendship between them. They gave Lucy a warm welcome, and did their best to entertain her,—showing her their gardens, the grotto which they were ornamenting with shell-work after the fashion of the time, and finally took her into the meadow, to show her Polly's little hornless cow, which was as tame and almost as playful as a kitten. Lucy looked across the stream into her aunt's garden, and up at the house where she had spent so many dreary hours, with a feeling of wonder.

"There is Mrs. Bernard now, walking on the green," said Polly. "Poor lady, how lonely she must be! I can't help feeling sorry for her, after all."

"I don't feel sorry for her," said Lucy, under her breath. "I hate her; and I should like to see her served just as she served me."

Lucy said these words with all energy which showed that she was thoroughly in earnest, and which made the gentle little Dulcie look up with surprise and horror.

"Oh, Lady Lucy, you should not feel so! It is not right. If she has treated you ever so bad, you ought to forgive her."

"Aunt Bernard never forgave me or anybody," returned Lucy. "She said once that she never forgave or forgot; and I have heard Margery say that she would never answer her own son's letter, when he wrote begging her pardon for running away to sea."

"Then she is a wicked woman, and you should not try to be like her," said plain-spoken Polly.

"Aunt Bernard said God hated sinners," persisted Lucy. "She said he hated me."

"I don't believe that," said Polly. "I mean to ask my father. Anyway, Lady Lucy, it was not much like hating you when God brought back your father from the prison and gave you such a nice home and such a nice lady to take care of you."

Lucy looked puzzled. "Did he do that? I never thought of that."

"Of course he did. He gives us all things. That is the reason we call him our Father, I suppose."

"I never thought of that," said Lucy, again. "I thought he was like a great king, who sat up in heaven and did not care what happened, only to punish people when they do wrong. I never thought of his being any thing like my father."

"You ought to think so; and you ought to love him, too," said Polly. "The catechism says our duty towards God is to love him with all our might; and it is in the Bible, too. And I am sure you ought to forgive Mrs. Bernard."

"I can't," returned Lucy. "You don't know how she treated me, Polly."

"I know she was shamefully cruel to you; but, Lady Lucy," added Polly, reverently, "you know she could not treat you so ill as our Lord was treated; and he forgave all his enemies, even on the cross. And, besides, you know God will not forgive you unless you forgive your aunt."

"It don't seem as if I could," said Lucy; and she looked again at the stately figure of Aunt Bernard, as she passed and repassed the archway in the holly hedges. "Oh, she was so hard,—so hard upon me!" she repeated, bitterly. "She never let me be happy one minute, if she could help it. And she abused my mamma. She called her a liar and an outlandish witch. No, Polly: I can't. I do hate her, and I always shall."

"But, Lady Lucy, what will become of you when you die, if you go on so?" argued Dulcie. "You know you cannot go to heaven unless you do forgive your enemies and are in charity with all men; and you know your mamma is in heaven," she added, in a low voice.

"And you cannot go to heaven unless God forgives you, either," added Polly. "You know we all do a great many wrong things, that need to be forgiven."

Lucy thought of the thimble lying under the aloe-leaf on the terrace. "Don't talk about it any more," said she, abruptly. "See, there is your mother calling us. I dare say Cousin Debby is ready to go home."

But Cousin Debby was not quite ready. Mrs. Burgess, in her hospitable kindness, would by no means allow them to depart without refreshment. The table was most invitingly set out in the great, cool parlour,—the parsonage had no other rooms below than the parlour and kitchen, and a room behind, which served the doctor for a study,—and Cousin Deborah and Lady Lucy must eat curds and cream and apricots and seed-cake and drink each a glass of gooseberry wine.

While they were chatting around the table, a shower came up, and Cousin Deborah concluded to wait until it was over. The weather partly cleared up towards evening, and they set out for home. But, before they reached Stanton Court, the rain poured down again, and they arrived at home wet to the skin.

Anne hurried Lucy off to bed, dosing her with warm gruel, lest she should take cold: so, of course, all chance of searching for the thimble was out of the question.

The next morning, before her cousin was dressed, Lucy ran down-stairs and out upon the terrace. Breathlessly she hurried to the flower-pots opposite the bow-window, and lifted the broad leaves one after the other.

The thimble was not there.

She stood bewildered for a moment, when it suddenly flashed across her mind that some one might have found it and put it away.

She hurried to the parlour. No: it was not in the box. It was lost!