CHAPTER IV.

"THE post-boy have been here and brought some letters," said Jenny, as she met Lucy in the hall. "I should not wonder if Mrs. Corbet had news of my lord your father. Anyhow, you were to go to her as soon as you came in. She is sitting in the library."

Lucy would have found it hard to say whether she were most alarmed or delighted with this news. She walked very soberly through the gallery, where the portraits of all the long-dead Stantons and Corbets hung against the wall, with suits of armour and groups of strange weapons suspended between them, and tapped softly at the half-open library door.

"Come in, my love," answered Cousin Deborah's cheery voice, in a tone which removed some, at least, of Lucy's fears. "See, here is a treasure for you,—a letter from your dear father, and directed to yourself."

"Really for me, Cousin Debby?" asked Lucy, looking at the direction, and then turning the letter over and examining the broad seal. "I never had a letter of my own in my life."

"Really for you; and I hope you will appreciate your father's goodness in taking so much pains for you. I assure you I was twice—yes, three times—as old as you before I ever had a letter of my own. But open it, and let us hear the news. I did not examine it, because I thought you would like the pleasure of breaking the seal yourself."

"Just the way," thought Lucy. "She always thinks of what I shall like. Oh, how wicked I am! Oh, if I only dared tell her all about the thimble! I wonder if I could? But, then, the gipsy-woman, and those terrible threats. Oh, dear! I never thought I could be so unhappy at Stanton Court."

Lucy broke the seal of the letter neatly, as Cousin Deborah showed her how to do, and opened the broad sheet, which was closely written from end to end.

"Please to read it for me, Cousin Debby. I never can read writing-hand fast."

"You must take pains to learn, Lucy. I have some very pretty letters, which you can practise upon; but I will read this one to you, if you please."

The letter was dated at the Duke of Marlborough's head-quarters, near Neuburg, a little place on the river Danube, not very far from Ingolstadt. It gave an account of such events of his journey as Lord Stanton thought would be interesting to his little daughter.

"It is generally believed that we are upon the eve of a great and decisive battle," said he; "though exactly when and how it will take place, of course, I cannot inform you; but I believe before this letter reaches you, the Duke of Marlborough and his noble ally, Prince Eugene, will have defeated the army of the French king, under Marshall Tallard, or will have been defeated themselves. The soldiers are in the best of spirits, and full of trust in their great commander, insomuch that no officer thinks of asking the reason of any of his motions, but all follow him with blind confidence in his wisdom.

"But let my dear child give God thanks that she lives in a country where the horrors of such war are unknown. The sights one sees here are enough to break a man's heart. Smoking ruins which only a few days since were thriving towns and lovely hamlets; old men, and little children, and mothers with infants at their breasts, lying down to starve at the roadside, or killed by the falling of their own roof-trees; fruitful fields, lately ripening to the harvest, now trampled and bare: these are but a few of the horrors which constantly meet one's eyes. I do not suppose this ruin can be helped; but it is indeed hard that such distress and destruction should fall upon innocent heads, and that the French king, whose mad ambition has brought about all this, should be living in luxury and quietness, far from the very sound of war.

"It may be, my daughter, that this is the last letter you will ever receive from your father. The duke has bestowed upon me the command of my old regiment; and should there be a battle, which seems imminent, you may be sure that your father will not be backward to do his part and sustain the honour of our country. Should I fall, you will be left in a position of great responsibility. Never forget, my child, that you are but the steward of your wealth, which you are to use not for your own selfish ease and pleasure, but for the honour of God and the good of your fellows, specially of those who as tenants and servants are more immediately in your power and under your influence. Take your cousin Deborah's advice in all things, and be governed by her; but, above all, pray to your Father in heaven for the guidance of his Holy Spirit.

"These are matters which I have neglected too much in the course of my life; but during my imprisonment, and while I was deprived of all outward solace, God was pleased to bring me to a better mind; and I trust, if my life be spared, I shall serve him henceforth as a Christian man should do.

"One thing more, my dear Lucy: I parted with your aunt Bernard, as you know, in great anger,—not without just cause. But it is my duty to pardon all, even as I would myself be pardoned. I would not appear before God save in charity with all men. I therefore desire that you will convey to my sister Bernard the assurance of my full and free forgiveness, in such way as Cousin Deborah may think best; and I also desire that you, Lucy, will forgive her for the wrongs she has done you. Cease not to pray for your father, my child; and may the God of the fatherless be your support if I am taken from you!"

Lucy listened to this letter with quiet tears rolling down her face and dropping in Cousin Deborah's apron.

"Oh," she thought, "if I only dared tell her all about the thimble! If only it were not for those dreadful things the woman spoke of!"

"Now, Lucy, how shall we manage to convey your father's message to Aunt Bernard?" asked Cousin Deborah. "Will you go and carry it to her?"

"Oh, Cousin Deborah, I dare not!" said Lucy, turning pale. "I dare not speak to Aunt Bernard. You don't know how afraid I am of her."

Cousin Deborah put her arm round Lucy, and felt that she was trembling at the very idea of facing her aunt. A feeling of indignation crossed her mind as she thought what the tyranny must have been, which so affected the child that the mere notion of speaking to Mrs. Bernard was dreadful to her. She forbore to urge Lucy any further.

"Suppose, then, Lucy, you copy this message of your father's in your own handwriting, and add some words of your own. I think that will be the best course. And, my dear, I am sure you will not forget, in your own secret prayers, to beseech God's protection for your dear father in the perils to which he is exposed."

"Do you suppose there has been a battle, Cousin Deborah?" asked Lucy.

"Of course I cannot tell, my love. You see, your father himself did not know. Great generals are not accustomed to tell their plans until they are ready to act; and I have heard that the Duke of Marlborough is remarkable for keeping his own counsel. But, even if there has been no battle, your father may be in danger. Many soldiers are slain who are not killed in battle."

"Then perhaps my papa may be dead already," said Lucy. "Oh, Cousin Deborah, suppose I should be an orphan even now!" And Lucy burst into tears, and wept bitterly.

"My dearest child," said Cousin Deborah, taking Lucy upon her lap, and wiping away the tears which fell from her own eyes, "we cannot tell what may have happened; but, Lucy, you must try to remember that God is in Bavaria as well as here, and to trust in him to take care of your dear father. 'God is love,' you know St. John says in the verses we read this morning."

"But God will not love me, because I am a naughty girl," sobbed Lucy. "Aunt Bernard said God hated me and would send his judgments to destroy me."

"My dear child, never, never believe that God hates you,—no, not even if you feel that you have been ever so naughty," said Cousin Deborah. "He sent his dear Son to die for us because we were sinners, and for no other reason. It was therefore we stood in need of his death, because we were sinners. Sinner though you may be, God still loves you, and desires that you may repent and return to him; and the moment you do so, he is ready to receive and forgive you and treat you as his dear child once more. Sometimes our heavenly Father sees fit to punish his children, and so he sends some trouble upon them, even upon those who are trying to follow him the most faithfully; but that is no sign he does not love them, any more than it would be a sign I did not love you because I saw reason to reprove you for some fault. Will you remember this, my child?"

"Yes, Cousin Debby," whispered Lucy, hiding her face on her cousin's breast.

"Now, I want to talk to you about something else, Lucy," said Cousin Deborah, after a little silence. "I have received a letter from my cousin Paulina, who, you know, lives in Exeter and keeps a girls' school. She wishes me to come and see her, that she may advise with me about some matters of importance connected with her present enterprise. There are some reasons why I do not wish to take you at present; though I mean you shall go with me some day. And, if I leave you at home, will you be very steady, and do all your tasks, and be obedient to Anne?"

"I will try, Cousin Debby."

"I shall be gone a day or two,—not longer, I think," continued Cousin Deborah. "And if I hear a good account of you on my return, and see that you have tried to give me pleasure by being faithful and industrious, I shall be very much gratified; because it will show that you are a trustworthy little girl."

"Yes, Cousin Debby," murmured Lucy, again.

"Very well, my love. Then I shall venture to take this little journey, having confidence that you will not fall into any mischief because I am not here to watch you. I trust you, Lucy."

"When shall you go, Cousin Deborah?" asked Lucy, feeling—oh, so small and mean in her own estimation, as the thought crossed her mind that Cousin Deborah's going away would remove all hindrances to her meeting the gipsy-woman.

"I cannot tell until I see Mattison and find out what horse there is for me to ride. It is something of a journey,—twenty good miles; and I am not so good a horsewoman as I was thirty years ago, when I rode from Exeter to London on the mare that all the men were afraid of."

Mattison was an old, broken-down trooper, who was head-groom and general master of the horse at Stanton Court. Consultation with him revealed the fact that there was a steady old gray horse, just the thing for a lady like Mrs. Corbet, and a broken-down charger left behind by my lord, which would answer very well for Mattison, who was to accompany her. So it was settled that they should take an early breakfast and set out from Stanton Court in the cool of the morning, resting, during the hottest part of the day, at the house of an old lady, a friend of Cousin Deborah's.

Anne was a little surprised, the next morning, to see Lady Lucy, after she had watched her cousin down the avenue, turn into the terrace parlour, as it was called, and seat herself at her lute, with the hour-glass by which she was used to time her tasks, on the table by the side of her lesson-book. She had expected to see Lucy take the opportunity to play.

"You are very industrious, my lady," said she. "That is not the way you used to do when Mrs. Bernard went away."

"Aunt Bernard was one person, and Cousin Deborah is another," said Lucy. "Cousin Deborah said she trusted me to be a good girl; and I am going to try and please her. Aunt Bernard never trusted me; and you know yourself, Anne, I never could please her, do what I would. It never made one bit of difference whether I did my tasks or let them alone; and so I used to feel as though I might as well do one thing as an other. But Cousin Deborah always praises me if I do well and if I do ill, she does not seem vexed—only sorry; that makes me feel as though I wanted to do every thing right."

"Well, I'll not say but you are in the right," replied Anne, seriously. "Mrs. Corbet is one of the best ladies I ever knew, I will say for her; and it was a blessed day for you which put you into her hands. By the way, has she ever said any thing about the thimble?"

"Not a word," replied Lucy. "It seems as though she must have missed it; but she has never spoken about it."

"I don't understand it," returned Anne. "She may be waiting to see if you will find it and put it back of your own accord."

"Do you think the gipsy-woman will be able to tell where it is, Anne?"

"I can't justly say. They do know wonderful things, to be sure. And it is not safe to offend them, either; for there is no knowing what revenge they may take. There was a woman my grandmother knew, who lived on the edge of Exmoor,—" And forthwith Anne plunged into a foolish tale, effectually diverting Lucy's mind from her practising, and making her feel more than ever afraid of not keeping her appointment with the gipsy.

"If I could only feel right about Cousin Deborah," said she; "but I am almost sure she will not like it."

"She will not know it," argued Anne; "and what folks don't know don't hurt them, folks say."

"I don't know I think it does, sometimes," said Lucy. "But, anyhow, I cannot help feeling mean and wicked when Cousin Deborah talks about trusting me and I know that I am telling her lies and deceiving her all the time. I wish I had told her all about the thimble the first minute I lost it. If I had gone out and picked it up, and told her how it came out there, she might have been angry; but she would have forgiven me, I know, and it would have been all right now."

"Then why did you not tell her before she went away?" asked Anne.

"That was different," replied Lucy. "I had told her more than one lie already; and you know how she hates lies. And there is the gipsy-woman, too! But please, Anne, don't talk to me any more now. I want to practise my music and learn my tables, as I promised Cousin Deborah."

Dinner-time came, and near the hour at which they had promised to meet the gipsy, Lucy and Anne were at the spring. The woman was there before them, seated on a stone, with her red cloak drawn about her, and her elbow resting on her knee. She was stirring the water of the little spring with a peeled rod she held in her hand, and seemed to be muttering something to herself.

"So you are come at last," said the hag, sternly, addressing herself to Lucy. "Well for you that you were no later. Have you brought what I told you?"

Lucy trembled as she drew from her pocket a small, gold-handled fruit-knife and put it into the hand of the woman, whose experienced eyes at once told her that the metal was pure.

"It is small; but it may do," said she. She turned her back upon the two spectators, and proceeded to rub the knife, to breathe upon it, and go through various mystical ceremonies, while Lucy and Anne looked on in silent awe.

"You must leave this with me to-night," she said; "and to-morrow at this hour you must bring me something more."

"I must not,—I dare not," exclaimed Lucy, in great distress.

"But you shall," said the witch, with a fearful frown, "or great trouble will visit you. Take your choice; but remember." And, without another word, she turned her back upon Lucy and Anne, and stalked off down the valley by the side of the brook, till a turn in the path hid her from their eyes.