CHAPTER III.

"WHAT are you doing with the box, Lucy, my dear?" asked Cousin Debby, opening the door.

"I—I was looking to see whether I put my thimble away." Lucy had given a guilty start, and stammered so, as she spoke, that any other child would have been at once suspected of lying.

But she was always so timid and frightened that Cousin Debby did not think of any thing being the matter, except that Lucy had been in doubt about her thimble.

"Did you think you had lost it, then?" she asked.

"I could not be sure. I did not remember," said Lucy, stammering more and more. "Please, Cousin Deborah, do not be angry with me."

"You poor little dear, how scared you are! You are all in a tremble, and your little face is as white as your kerchief," said Cousin Deborah, sitting down, and taking Lucy on her knee. "Lucy, my child, I do not wish you ever to be afraid of me, even if you have done wrong. Try to have confidence in me and think that I am your friend."

Lucy did not answer.

And Cousin Deborah, seeing that she still trembled, thought best to divert her from her fright.

"See here, my love, your stay-lacing is not fastened, nor your shoes properly buckled. Your cap and kerchief, too, are soiled, and need changing; nor do I think these little finger-ends have seen the water this morning. Did Anne dress you?"

"No, Cousin Debby: I dressed myself. I did not think it was any harm," said poor Lucy, who was so used to being blamed, whatever she did, that she was by no means sure she had not committed a grave offense in being her own dressing-maid.

"There is no harm in that, my child. I am glad to have you learn to do every thing for yourself; but you must be neat and careful about it, and try always to look like a lady. I suppose, however, you were in a great hurry to find your thimble: so I will excuse you this time. Now go back to your room and make yourself neat, and then we will have prayers."

As Lucy went back to her room, she was conscious of a new feeling in regard to what she had done. She had often before been terrified at the consequences of wrong-doing; but of the action itself she had thought very little. But now, as she thought of having disobeyed and deceived kind Cousin Deborah, she felt sorry for and ashamed of her sin, as well as alarmed for the punishment she expected to receive whenever the thimble should be missed. And she felt that she should continue to be sorry, even if she were never punished at all.

"Oh, if I could only find it," she thought, "I would never, never be so naughty again."

She made herself as neat as she could, and was just finishing her dressing operations, when Anne entered.

"So, my lady, you are grown an early riser, and very independent, to be sure," said she, not very well pleased. "How long since you were so grand?"

"Why, Anne, you know I always dressed myself at Aunt Bernard's. And Cousin Debby says it is a very good thing. But I was in such a hurry this morning that I forgot to wash my hands or buckle my shoes; and Cousin Debby sent me back. Please get me a clean cap, Anne."

"Ay, you need one. See how you have tumbled your ruffles by throwing your cap down anyhow, instead of setting it tidily on the top of a chair-post, or some such place. What would Mrs. Bernard say to that, think you?"

"She would box my ears, I suppose," said Lucy: "so I am very glad she is not here. Don't be cross, please, Anne. I do like you to dress me; but, you know, I must do as Cousin Debby says."

"Of course you must," replied Anne, in a mollified tone,—"and all the more that she is so good to you. But I can tell you, Lady Lucy, she can be cruel strict, too. You ought to hear how she talked to Jenny housemaid because she told her a fib about the linen. She made her cry, I promise you; and she said she could put up with any thing better than a lie: so you must be careful, Lady Lucy. But, goodness gracious me, child! What is the matter, that you turn so pale?"

"Oh, Anne, I have done such a dreadful thing!" said poor Lucy. "And I have told Cousin Debby a lie, too! Oh, what shall I do?"

"Tell me all about it," said Anne. "I will put a clean tucker in your bodice, meantime."

Lucy related the story, with many injunctions not to tell.

Anne listened attentively, and shook her head when it was finished.

"'Tis a bad business," said she. "I am much afraid you will never see the thimble again. There was a tramper woman here yesterday, with her child on her back; and she went along the whole length of the terrace,—the impudent beggar! Nothing less would serve her; and I doubt she has seen the thimble and picked it up. You see, if old Robbins had found it, he would have brought it back: he would as soon cut his head off as steal, would Robbins. But it won't do to ask him about it; because that would let out the secret."

"Then, what shall I do?" asked Lucy, in a despairing tone. "As soon as ever I come to do my task of sewing, the thimble will be missed."

"Hark! There is Mrs. Corbet calling you," said Anne. "Go down now,—there's a dear,—and I will think the matter over and see what can be done."

"You have been a long time," said Cousin Deborah. "What hindered you?"

"Anne had to sew a new tucker in my bodice," said Lucy.

"Anne must learn to have your things ready beforehand. But never mind, now. Come and read the psalm."

It was rather hard for Lucy to bring her mind to the task, but she did really wish to please Cousin Deborah: so she took pains, and succeeded tolerably well.

Cousin Deborah went back and repeated one of the last verses:—

"'If I regard wickedness in my heart, the Lord will not hear me,'" said she.

"Do you know what that means, Lucy?"

Lucy had never been much accustomed to think about what she read, and she had no answer ready.

"Let us see if we cannot find a meaning in it," said Cousin Deborah. "How can any one regard wickedness in his heart?"

"By wanting to do what is wrong, I suppose," replied Lucy, after some thought.

"Yes,—by wishing and intending to do what is wrong. If you were to pray to God for his blessing, while all the time you were wishing and meaning to do something wicked, God would not regard your prayer. You would not have any right to expect it. It would be no reason for his not hearing you, that you had already done even a very wicked thing, if you were truly sorry for your wickedness and asked your Father in heaven to forgive you for his dear Son's sake. But if you meant to do the same thing right over again as soon as you had a chance, you could not expect him to hear you. You know he sees all your thoughts and feelings, whether you speak them out or not. I can only guess, at the best, what you are thinking about; but the Lord knows the very thoughts of all our hearts."

These words, as you may suppose were any thing but comfortable to poor Lucy. She had heard enough of God before,—and more than enough; for Aunt Bernard used to frighten her, many a time, by telling her that he was angry with her and would destroy her. But Cousin Debby spoke in a very different way,—as if she feared him and loved him too. Polly Burgess, too, spoke of loving him, and said he was like her own father, only a great deal better and kinder. He had delivered her dear papa from the French prison and brought him safely home to her, and had given her dear, good Cousin Debby to take care of her,—so Polly said. And she prayed with Cousin Debby every morning and night that God would take care of papa in the war and bring him safe home again.

But, if what Cousin Debby said was true, what was the use of her praying? She had told several lies about the thimble; and she knew she meant to tell another and a worse one. She had planned to tell Cousin Debby that the window was left open and the box unlocked, and that the beggar-woman must have come in and stolen the thimble.

"But I will not say a word about it, unless she asks me; and, anyway, I dare say she did take the thimble from the terrace: so that will be partly true. And I will be just as good as I can be about every thing else, and I will never tell a lie again after this time."

So Lucy resolved; but, somehow, the resolution did not seem to afford her much comfort. She did her lessons unusually well, and received great commendation; but Cousin Debby's praises did not give her the same pleasure that they had done yesterday. Her mind was beginning to open to the sense of right and wrong, and she felt that she did not deserve them.

Then came the sewing; and Lucy's heart sank as Cousin Debby opened the work-box.

Strangely enough, however, she did not appear to miss the thimble, although the little satin-lined compartment where it belonged was plainly empty.

"Now let me see how diligent you can be," said she, as she unfolded the little petticoat. "You have done this very neatly, Lucy,—as well as I could have done it myself. Aunt Bernard must have taken great pains with your needlework. There are very few girls of your age who can work so neatly. You see you have at least one thing for which to thank her."

Lucy did not feel so very grateful at that moment; but she agreed to all Cousin Debby said, and took up her work, resolved to do her very best. She hoped Cousin Debby would go away and leave her to herself, as she did yesterday.

But, instead of doing so, she sat down in the bow-window and occupied herself in darning some beautiful old lace. She told Lucy this lace had belonged to her grandmother and should some day be hers; and she related many interesting anecdotes of this same grandmother, and of other ladies, members of the Stanton and Corbet families, whose portraits hung in the long picture-gallery up-stairs.

In spite of her trouble of mind, Lucy could not help being interested in these tales. And she was surprised, when the clock struck eleven, to find that she had come to the end of her work.

"See, Cousin Deborah: is not this finished?" she asked, as she held it up for inspection.

"It is finished, and very nicely, too," replied Cousin Deborah, taking the little garment out of her hand and looking it over. "I have found several other articles which will be useful to the poor woman. And after dinner, if it is fine, you shall go with Anne and carry them to her; afterwards you may ride as far as the village shop and buy me some needles and tape. Now go and play a little; and, when you hear the clock strike the half-hour, come in and get ready for dinner."

"Where are you going, Cousin Deborah?" Lucy ventured to ask, as she saw her cousin putting up her own work.

"I am going to my room for a while. Now run away and play."

Lucy was glad to hear that her cousin was going to her room. It was upon the other side of the house, and quite away from the terrace. And Lucy resolved that she would improve the opportunity and spend the half-hour in one more hunt for the thimble.

But in vain did she search under the leaves of the broad-leaved aloe, scratching her hands sadly with the sharp thorns. Her thimble was clearly not there.

"How did you scratch your hands so, my dear?" asked Cousin Deborah, when Lucy came down to dinner.

"I was looking at a bird's nest in the holly-bush, Cousin Debby," replied Lucy, in a low voice.

"You are quite sure you have not been at the gooseberry-bushes, Lucy?"

"Yes, ma'am. I have not been near them." Lucy was telling the truth this time, and spoke in tolerably steady tones but her conscience reproached her at the very moment, for she knew she had told another lie, in spite of all her resolutions. The rapid multiplication of lies has long been proverbial.

People in those days dined early: so that twelve was a fashionable hour. It was not quite noon when Cousin Debby and Lucy sat down to dinner.

Lucy had all her life been limited and scrimped as to her food. Aunt Bernard's housekeeping was far from liberal, at the best. True, she had always some sort of meat for dinner; but of this Lucy seldom got more than a very small taste, and right glad was she to be helped to enough of the batter-pudding, or dumpling cooked with the meat, to stay her hunger. Of tart, pudding, or any thing of that sort, she never tasted save by stealth when Margery or Anne would smuggle away a bit for her.

But Cousin Debby had very different notions. She helped Lucy liberally to the excellent roast-beef, and afterwards gave her a whole custard. Nor did she season these dainties with constant reproofs, or count every mouthful and accuse the child of gluttony because she had a good appetite. On the contrary, she smiled to see Lucy's plate emptied the second time, and said she was glad to see her enjoy her dinner.

"Think, Lucy, who it is that has given you all these good things," said Cousin Deborah, "and then your returning thanks will not be mere empty, formal words."

As Lucy stood up and repeated her "grace after meat," a good old custom which seems to have gone quite out of fashion, she thought, "He gave me this nice dinner, too. I do wish I could be good, when he is so good to me!"

Often had Lucy been required to say those words when the whole dinner-hour had been one of misery to her,—when she had nothing, as it seemed to her, to be thankful for but sharp words, hard crusts, and harder raps from Aunt Bernard's knife or fan handle,—when her heart was bursting with a sense of oppression and unkindness. Then she had never thought of their meaning, but only how to say them so that she should not earn another red ridge upon her neck or arms.

Now she thought of their sense, and really felt thankful to God for the nice meal and the love which seasoned it. But still that verse recurred to her mind:

"'If I regard wickedness in my heart, the Lord will not hear me.'"

"Now you may read to me a while; and after that, you and Anne can set out upon your expedition. I believe I will not go out to-day."

"Don't you feel well, Cousin Deborah?" asked Lucy.

"Yes, my dear; but I am somewhat tired. I am an old woman, you know, and cannot run about all day without being fatigued, as you young folks do."

"Are you really old, Cousin Debby?" asked Lucy, timidly.

"Yes, my dear: I am past sixty years old. I can just remember the day when King Charles the First was put to death; and I shall never forget the day that his son, Charles the Second, entered London after his restoration. I saw the long procession, and all the shows, and the feasts and bonfires in the streets. And I well remember the dreadful days of the great plague: though we did not live in London then, but some miles distant."

"Please, Cousin Deborah, I wish you would tell me some stories about those times," Lucy ventured to say. "It is so much nicer than reading them out of the history books."

"Well," said Cousin Deborah, smiling, "you certainly pay me a high compliment."

"It was not a compliment," said Lucy. "It was true."

"Compliments may be true as well as false, Lucy. But I will make a bargain with you. I will tell you stories for half an hour after dinner, provided you will work at the same time."

"Well," said Lucy, with great satisfaction. "What shall I do?"

"Suppose you begin to knit a pair of nice warm woollen stockings for poor Dame Higgins at the almshouse, whose hands are crippled by the rheumatism. You can easily have them ready against winter. I have plenty of good strong worsted."

"I shall like that," said Lucy. "It is so much nicer to think that I am working for people than just to work, work, stitch, stitch, without ever knowing what one is working for."

"I agree with you, Lucy. But you must be faithful in fulfilling your part of the bargain, or I shall consider myself released from mine."

The stocking was soon set up, and Lucy worked for an hour without once looking at the clock to see what time it was, while Cousin Deborah told her tales of the great civil war, which she had heard from her father and mother.

"Now you may go and get ready for your ride," said Cousin Deborah. "You will find the bundle of baby-linen upon my table, and cook Will give you some biscuit to carry to the poor woman. After you have been at the lodge, you may ride down to the shop and buy me a paper of needles, and two sticks of bobbin like the bit which is tied round the bundle. Take that for a sample; and here is sixpence, which you may spend for yourself, if you please. I dare say you and Anne will be glad of a cake apiece at the end of your journey."

"How good you are, Cousin Debby!" exclaimed Lucy. "You just seem to let me do things because I like them. I do love you dearly!"

And Lucy threw her arms round her cousin's neck and kissed her heartily. She had never yet kissed Aunt Bernard of her own accord. "Oh, how I do wish I could be a good girl!"

"Why, I think you are a tolerably good girl, as little girls go," said Cousin Deborah, returning the kiss, "though doubtless there is much room for improvement still. I find that the case with myself; and I have been trying to be a good girl a much longer time than you have. But, Lucy," she added, seriously, detaining the little girl a moment, "if you really wish to be good, you must ask the help of your heavenly Father to make you so. Ask him to put his Spirit in your heart and make you love him. That is the only way to be good and happy, in this world or the next. Now go and take your ride, and see how many pleasant things you will have to tell me when you come home."

"I don't believe any one in the world is so good as my cousin Deborah," said Lucy to Anne.

Lucy was mounted on her good, patient little donkey, and, with Anne at her side, was riding down the avenue towards the lodge beside the great gate. The old trees, of which there was a double row on each side, met over her head; and the rooks, which had had their nests for a hundred years and more in the great elms, were apparently giving a great deal of good advice to their young ones in the branches. On either side stretched the park; and Lucy could see the deer resting in the fern, or bounding away as they approached. It was a lovely afternoon in August: the air was full of pleasant sounds and scents; and everywhere Lucy's eyes rested upon something beautiful.

"I do believe my cousin Deborah is the very best and kindest lady in the whole world," repeated Lucy. "Don't you think so, Anne?"

"Well, I do not think you will find many better, my lady," replied Anne. "This is not much like the way you were spending the afternoon five weeks ago this very day. Do you remember how that was?"

"Why, no," said Lucy, considering. "Oh, yes: I do, indeed," she added, shuddering. "Oh, Anne, how dreadful that was!"

"And you little thought who was coming to your rescue: did you?" continued Anne. "I am sure my heart was in my mouth when Madam Burgess took me into the library, and there sat the parson and that fine gentleman in the gold-laced coat and waistcoat."

"I am sure it was very good in you, Anne," said Lucy. "I shall never forget it. But, oh, that unlucky thimble! I would give any thing if it was found, or if I had never touched it! It makes me feel so ashamed when Cousin Deborah praises me, and says and does such kind things! When Aunt Bernard scolded me, I did not feel so; I felt vexed and angry, and just like being revenged upon her; but I don't feel so now."

"Didn't Mrs. Corbet say any thing about the thimble this morning?" asked Anne.

"No: I don't think she has missed it yet. But, when she does, what shall I ever do or say?"

"It, is very unlucky, and that is the truth," said Anne. "I don't doubt that the beggar-woman got it; or perhaps a magpie spied it and took it away. If we could only find out where it was gone! If there were only a wise woman, now, like the one my aunt went to about her mistress's silver spoons!"

"What do you mean by a Wise woman, Anne?"

"Oh, a woman that can tell all sorts of things,—how to cure cattle, and how to find things that are lost or stolen. There was such a woman in Stanton-Corbet once; but Parson Burgess would not let her practise her arts there. He said she was a deceiver and an im——— What was the word, now?"

"An impostor?" said Lucy.

"Yes, an impostor. He preached a sermon about it, more by token it did not do much good, for the people went to her just the same: so, finally, he drove her away out of the parish."

"Did he say it was wicked to go to such people?"

"Yes, I believe so. I was young then, and didn't mind so much about sermons. But here we are at the lodge."

Lucy displayed her treasures, and had the pleasure of seeing one of the pretty little twin-girls dressed in the clothes she had brought, and also of being flattered and praised for her goodness and condescension.

Till Anne said,—"Now, Mary Bolton, don't you be turning the child's head, and making her think she is an angel all complete, just for such a little matter as that. I don't deny, it was kind in my little lady to work for your baby; but it is no more than she ought to do, seeing how much Mrs. Corbet does for her. Come, Lady Lucy; we must be on our way, if we are going to the village."

"Are you going across the common?" asked Mary Bolton. "You had better take the path through the plantation, I think. The gipsies on the common, and my little lady might be frightened."

"Gipsies?" asked Lucy, looking a little scared.

"Yes; and a wild lot they do look, to be sure. They say the old women are witches; and all the girls in the village are agog to have their fortunes told."

"Don't you be scared, Lady Lucy," said Anne. "They won't meddle with us, I dare say. By your leave, Mary Bolton, I would rather go across the common than the other way. I should not relish meeting any of those gentry in the woods. Betty Henwife will have to look sharp after her fowls, and the gamekeeper for his pheasants, now we have gipsies in the neighbourhood."

"Anne," said Lucy, after they had gone a little way, "do you suppose the gipsy-woman could tell me what has become of my mother's thimble?"

"I was just thinking of that very thing," returned Anne. "I should not wonder if she could; for they do tell wonderful things,—that is certain. See, there they are,—tents, donkeys, and all."

There they were, forming a picturesque group enough, with their ragged tents pitched under the shade of some old hawthorns, their donkeys and ponies tethered near by, and their kettle, boiling, suspended on sticks over the fire, with a tall old woman in a red cloak, just removing the cover and stirring the mess.

Half a dozen half-naked children lay about; and no sooner did they catch sight of Lucy than up they all jumped and ran towards her and Anne, begging vociferously. Another woman, still taller and older than the first, came striding towards them.

And Anne, calling to her, bade her call off the children, and the dogs, which were now adding their voices to the chorus.

[Illustration: _Lady Lucy's Secret._ "She will cross the old gipsy's hand with silver."]

"Don't you be frightened, my pretty little lady," said the old woman, in a coaxing voice. "No one shall hurt my pretty dear. She will cross the old gipsy's hand with silver, and see what a fine fortune I will tell her."

Lady Lucy and Anne looked at each other.

"Oh, yes; I know all about it," said the gipsy, nodding in a mysterious manner. "I know there is a fine gentleman at the wars whom she loves. And I know she has lately escaped from bondage and cruel oppressors, and all that has happened to her since."

Lucy and Anne again exchanged glances of awe and wonder,—both of them forgetting that this gipsy-woman could easily have learned all this from the gossip of the village.

And Lucy half whispered, "Do you suppose she could tell about the thimble?"

The gipsy-woman, like many other impostors of her class, had quick ears and quick wits. She caught the word "thimble," and easily guessed that Lucy had lost something of that sort.

"I can tell what has happened lately, too," she continued, in a mysterious tone. "I can see what is lost, and where it lies, shining like silver and gold, fit for a lady's finger when she is working for her true lover. Only cross the poor gipsy's hand with silver, and you shall see. As for you," she added, looking at Anne with a penetrating glance, "you have lately had a rise in life, and shall soon have another and there is a stout lad abroad at the wars who shall bring home a gold ring some day."

"Just hear that!" said Anne, turning pale. "How could she know any thing about John Martin, that went away to the wars with my lord?"

By this time Lady Lucy and Anne were prepared to believe any nonsense the gipsy chose to tell them.

And Lucy whispered, "Ask her about the thimble."

"My lady has lost—" began Anne.

But the woman cut her short. "I know; I know. She has lost a thimble. And, if she wants to find it, let her come to-morrow to the spring by the brook, and bring something which has lain by the thimble,—something of silver if it was silver, and of gold if it was gold,—and she shall know all she desires. But let her beware how she deceives or trifles with the gipsy-woman, lest she rue the day she saw me under the hawthorn tree."

Terrified by this threat, all the more alarming from its mystery, and by the frown and glance of the old woman, Lucy tremblingly promised all she required.

"Must it be something out of the same box?" she asked.

"Yes, out of the same box. Don't fail to let it be of the same metal, or it will do no good. Now, young woman, let me see your hand."

The gipsy told Anne a fine fortune, and sent her off greatly pleased. Lucy, however, was not so well satisfied. She knew instinctively that Cousin Deborah would never let her go to meet the gipsy-woman, and that she must do so by stealth, if at all. Here was a new labyrinth of deceit opening upon her.

"Oh, what a tangled web we weave When first we practise to deceive!"

These lines were not written in Lady Lucy's day, or she might have remembered them. She had made a resolution that she would never tell another lie; but what was to become of that resolution now? And what was it but stealing, if she took something else out of the box? But, then, if she did not? Lucy shuddered. She was timid by nature, and still more by education; and the thought of the gipsy's threats made her tremble and turn cold.

It is to be hoped that almost any little girl of the present day would have more sense than to be influenced as Lucy was. And yet I am not sure that one could not find both children and grown-up people doing quite as foolish things as going to a gipsy-woman about a lost thimble. Indeed, if there can be said to be any sense in the matter, there would seem to be two or three grains more in going to a live woman for information than in asking a dead table.

But Lucy had never been taught any better: indeed, what teaching she had ever received on the subject had been the other way.

You may easily see how Lady Lucy was prepared to fall into the snare which the gipsy-woman had laid for her. She no more doubted that the woman could tell where the thimble was, than she doubted that she had lost it. And she felt more and more that she would give any thing she had to get it into her own possession again: first, because, despite Cousin Deborah's kindness, she could not divest herself of the idea that she should be severely punished if it were known that she had lost it; and secondly, because she could not bear to part with the thimble her dear mamma had used when a little girl like herself.

That the gipsy might impose upon her, or that, even if she found out where the thimble was, she might not be able to get it back again, were matters which she never thought of. Her whole mind was occupied with contriving how she might get down to the spring to-morrow without the knowledge of Cousin Deborah. And she arrived at home before she had come to any satisfactory decision.