"I will not!" returned Lucy, resisting with all her strength. "I will never beg your pardon. I hate you, Aunt Bernard, with my whole heart! I would rather live with the dogs in the parson's kennel than with you."
Aunt Bernard said no more, but, dragging Lucy out of the kitchen, and up the stairs to a disused attic, she thrust her in by main force, and shut the door behind her. The maids could only guess what passed by hearing Lucy's cries and screams. Presently Aunt Bernard came down-stairs and into the kitchen, expecting to find Anne and Margery in a great fright She was mistaken.
"Mistress," said old Margery, rising, and standing before her with folded arms, "is it your purpose to let that child remain all night in that desolate chamber?"
"That is no business of yours, Margery; but, since you ask me, I will tell you that it is my purpose to keep her a prisoner, and upon prisoners' diet, and that of the sparest. She shall neither come out of that room, nor shall she see other food than brown bread and water, till she kneels to me and begs my pardon,—nor then, unless I see fit to grant it. I will break that proud spirit, or I will know why. Nay, I will not hear a word," she added, sternly, as she saw Margery preparing to speak. "You and Anne will find you have done the child little good with your coddlings and cossetings."
"Then, madam," said the old woman, not without dignity, "you will please suit yourself with another cook. I have served you for many a year, and did not think to leave you during my life; but I will never stay under a roof where an orphan child is so treated. The day after to-morrow is quarter-day: so you will please suit yourself with a cook."
"And with a housemaid also, mistress," said Anne. "'Tis well known that an orphan's curse will bring destruction upon the proudest house; and I, for one, have no wish to abide it. Every one knows how the lightning struck Farmer Dobson's stacks and barns after he turned his wife's poor daughter out of doors, and what happened to the uncle of the Babes in the Wood."
Anne spoke according to the superstitions of the time; nor was Mrs. Bernard's mind so free from it that a shudder did not pass over her at the girl's bold words. But she was proud and obstinate,—firm and dignified she called herself. Her own conscience told her that she was cruel and unforgiving,—that she visiting on Lucy's head not so much the child's fault as her own vexation. But she would not listen. Her evil passions were aroused, and had become her masters.
"You must do as you please," said she, coldly. "I shall doubtless find other servants in your place easier than you will find other services,—especially at your age, Margery."
"I can't help that," said Anne, tossing her head. "Better a crust in quietness than a full dish under the curse of the orphan."
Two or three days passed on, and nothing was seen of Lucy. She remained shut up in her attic chamber, visited by her aunt or Hannah once a day, with scanty and coarse provisions. Sometimes the girls, listening, heard her sobbing as if her heart would break, sometimes moaning faintly; but Mrs. Bernard kept close watch, and they could not get near her.