Lady Lucy's secret

by Lucy Ellen Guernsey

"I don't care one pin," replied Anne, decidedly. "If my mistress treated any of us with any confidence, or put any trust in one, it would be different; but so long as she and Hannah are always spying and prying about, and won't believe a word one says, even though it should be gospel truth, why, they may just find out what they can, for all me. I shall just sit down and do up the child's open-hem for her, and my mistress may find out the difference if she can. It will not be the first trick I have played her in my time,—nor you either, Mistress Margery."

Margery sighed, and shook her head. She was not satisfied with Anne's reasoning, nor did her own conscience acquit her in the matter, but she was very fond of Lucy, and loved to see the child happy for once, as she said. So she set about making currant buns and a gooseberry fool—an old-fashioned country dish, than which there are few better—for Lucy's supper. But Lucy was not destined to the enjoyment of these dainties.

She played in the garden and down by the brook as long as she could see, forgetting for a while books, lute, and all the rest of her torments. She talked to Polly Burgess across the stream, and watched her as she milked her own little black Welsh cow, wishing all the time that she had a cow to milk and take care of. At last she yielded to Anne's entreaties that she would come in out of the dew and eat her supper.

She had just settled herself comfortably at the little table which Margery had set out in the corner, and was watching with quiet satisfaction the toasting of the currant buns, when the door of the kitchen was opened, and Aunt Bernard, entering quietly as usual, stood transfixed with amazement and anger at the sight which met her eyes. There was Lady Lucy, in the kitchen, actually leaning with both elbows on the table, and her chin resting on her hands, watching Margery, who was on her knees toasting the buns, and laughing and joking with old Roger, the cow-man; while Anne had actually a whole new mould candle lighted at her elbow, and was busily working at the open-hem ruffle!

Aunt Bernard had gone more than half her journey, when she was met by a messenger sent to tell her that the family at Langham Hall were in great trouble,—that the smallpox had broken out in the house, and my lady's two daughters were down with that dreadful disease, for which in those days no preventive was known. Of course all thought of the visit was now out of the question, and Aunt Bernard turned homeward in no good humour. It was destined to be a day of misfortunes; for about a mile from home the carriage broke down, and Aunt Bernard was obliged to walk home, in her best brocade and carriage-shoes, over a road far from good in the best of times, and now sloppy and dirty from two or three days' rain. It was in no placid mood, therefore, that she opened the kitchen-door, to find her family in her absence violating almost every rule she had ever laid down for them.

It was upon Lucy, as usual, that her wrath fell heaviest. The poor child had never in all her sad life been so berated. Ladies in those days were used to employ language for which in these a housemaid would be dismissed; and when Aunt Bernard was angry there were few names too hard to be bestowed upon Lucy. Nor was this the worst. Aunt Bernard declared that Lucy was the true child of her mother, that foreign woman who had deceived and ensnared her poor brother to his ruin; that her mother had been a liar, and worse; and that Lucy was fast following in her steps down to perdition.

As she went on, Lucy, who had seemed stunned at first, lifted up her head and looked Mrs. Bernard steadily in the face, while her colour rose, and her large black eyes flashed fire.

"Aunt Bernard, you are a wicked woman to speak so of my dear mother," said she. "Mamma was a lovely lady; and my father loved her. She is an angel now; and when you call her bad names, it is you that are the liar, and not she."

Aunt Bernard stood as if stunned, for a moment. Then she seized Lucy by the arm.

"Down on your knees, this moment!" said she, sternly, and at the same time trying to force her to kneel. "Down upon your knees, this moment, and beg my pardon!"