CHAPTER VI.

"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.