CHAPTER V.

"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."