Read Ebook: Types of Naval Officers Drawn from the History of the British Navy by Mahan A T Alfred Thayer

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Ebook has 688 lines and 130776 words, and 14 pages

CHAP.

TIMID LUCY.

THE LITTLE BED-ROOM.

Dr. Vale had the prettiest house in all Chatford. It was a tasteful, white cottage, with a green lawn in front, and tall elm trees about it. The side windows looked out upon a pleasant orchard, where the smooth, ripe apples peeped temptingly from their beds of fresh leaves. At one of these windows there was a neat curtain, that was looped back one summer evening, while through the open casement there floated the perfume of the rose bush that had climbed the cottage wall, until its buds could look in at the upper window. A pretty sight there was within! the moonlight streamed on the floor, and lit up as sweet a little bed-room as any fairy could desire. The small counterpane and bureau-cover were white as snow, on the tiny work-table there was a vase of fresh flowers, and the miniature book-case was filled with an interesting collection of nicely-bound volumes. There was nothing wanting to give the apartment an air of perfect taste and comfort.

Did the young owner enjoy that pleasant room? Young she must have been, for everything, even to the low rocking-chair, was evidently prepared for the use of some favoured child.

Presently the door opened, but no one entered. Lucy Vale, the doctor's youngest daughter, stood timidly without. Surely there was nothing frightful in that quiet room? yet she did not venture in until the light was so steady that she could see plainly into its farthest corners. As soon, as she had locked the door behind her, she looked into the closet, behind the curtain, under the bed, and even under the bureau, where nothing thicker than a turtle could possibly have hidden itself.

There had not been a robbery in the peaceful village of Chatford in the memory of the oldest inhabitant, so there was no danger of Lucy's disturbing any villain in his hiding-place. If she had chanced to find the thief she seemed so earnestly seeking, she would have been in a most unfortunate position, as her bed-room door was locked, and, without any weapon, her feeble arm would have been but poor protection.

Children who never go to sleep without hunting for robbers, seldom think what they would do if they should at last succeed in finding one, nicely stowed away in a closet. Few thieves are so hardened as to injure a sleeping child, while the most cowardly might be led to strike a blow on being suddenly discovered, and placed in danger of punishment. After all, even if there were thieves in a house, the safest course for a child would be to go quietly to sleep, and leave the evil men to steal and depart.

Lucy Vale did not seem quite satisfied with her first search; again she furtively glanced about, before she sat down to read the chapter in the Bible, which she had been taught never to omit at night. Lucy read her Bible as a duty, not because she loved it, or wished to learn the will of God, and now she could not fix her attention at all upon its sacred pages.

On this particular evening her prayers were soon over, and she was quickly in bed, leaving the lamp burning; its light however was of but little use to her, as she thrust her head under the covering, hardly leaving space enough to breathe through.

If Mrs. Maxwell, the housekeeper, had known that Lucy kept her light burning at night, she would have scolded her severely, for she often said, "it was flying in the face of nature to try to make night like day, and for her part she thought it downright wicked to be wasting oil when everybody was asleep, to say nothing of the danger of fire."

Dr. Vale had lost his wife when Lucy was just six years old, and since that time Mrs. Maxwell had been his housekeeper; he trusted everything to her, and she seemed to take the greatest delight in being economical, that none of her master's substance might be wasted. She was not bad-tempered, but she had a stern, harsh manner, and was easily worried by children, only thinking them good when they were silent and stirred neither hand nor foot. Lucy seldom came near her without being blamed for something, or told to sit down and be quiet.

The little girl would have been quite lonely had it not been for her brother Hartwell, who was just two years older than herself. Lucy was now ten, but Hartwell seemed to think her a very little child, hardly fit to be his companion, yet he would sometimes permit her to play with him, and a dearly-bought pleasure it was. Harty, as he was generally called, was indolent; he could not bear to move about, and therefore found it very convenient to have Lucy to wait upon him. He never seemed to have thought his sister might not like running up and down stairs any better than he did. It was so easy when he wanted anything to tell Lucy to run for it, that sometimes he kept her little feet in such constant motion that at night she was quite tired out. If she ever complained, he told her, girls were made to wait on boys, and if she could not do such trifles for him she had better go to her doll-baby and not be about in his way. Lucy loved her brother, and liked to be near him, so she seldom refused to do what he asked her, although he often called her disobliging when she had been trying her best to please him.

Hartwell was very fond of teasing, and his poor little sister had to suffer for his amusement. Sometimes he would make her cry, by telling her that she was so ugly that it was painful to look at her; at others he would call her a coward, and run after her to put insects on her neck, or he would jump out from a dark corner and shout in her ear when she thought herself quite alone.

As you will conclude, Lucy did not lead a very happy life. Her father was so constantly occupied that he seldom took his meals with the family, and sometimes hardly spoke to his little daughter for days together. She had no one to whom she could talk freely; Mrs. Maxwell never listened to her, and her brother was so apt to laugh at what she said, that she did not dare to tell him many things that troubled her. She was naturally a timid child, but since her mother's death she had grown so bashful that she could hardly answer when a stranger spoke to her. Many of her childish fears, which a kind friend in the beginning could easily have banished, had become so strong that she lived in perpetual alarm.

THE THUNDER-SHOWER.

About midnight Lucy was roused by a loud clap of thunder. The rain was dashing in through the open window, and the waning lamp seemed but a spark amid the almost incessant flashes of lightning. The poor child trembled with fear, she dared not close the window, and yet the flying drops almost reached her little bed. She lay in an agony of terror, thinking that every moment might be her last. The idea of death was horrible to her: in broad daylight, or when pleasantly occupied, she could forget that she must die; but any sudden fright would bring the solemn truth to her mind and fill her with distress. She had never heard Mrs. Maxwell or Harty speak of being afraid of death, and dared not mention her fear to them, and with her father she was so shy, that he knew very little of what was passing in her mind.

The many faults of which she had been guilty rose to her mind in that awful storm, and she resolved if her life were spared never to do wrong again. After making this resolution she felt a little comforted, and began to think what could be done about the window. She got up and took the lamp to go and call some one to her assistance. But whom should she call? "I will not disturb father," she said to herself, "he was so very tired last night; Harty will laugh at me for not doing it myself; and Mrs. Maxwell--I cannot wake her, she will be so very angry." Thus thinking, she stood irresolutely in the hall, starting at every flash of lightning, and afraid either to go forward or return. Just then Mrs. Maxwell opened her door: "What are you about there?" said she, with an astonished look at Lucy.

"Please, ma'am," said the little girl, who was really glad to see a human face, "will you shut my window?"

"Why in the name of wonder did not you shut it yourself?" was the response. Lucy was silent, and they entered the room, together. "A pretty piece of work!" said the neat housekeeper, holding tip both hands, as her eyes fell on the soaking carpet. She shut the window hastily, and then said to Lucy, "Come to my room, for it wouldn't be safe for any one to sleep in that damp place."

Lucy was so much afraid of Mrs. Maxwell, that it was quite a trial to be in the same bod with her; she crept close to the wall, not daring to go to sleep, lest she should be restless, and wake the stern woman at her side. She had many serious thoughts that night, and again and again resolved never more to do wrong.

Towards morning she had a pleasant nap, from which she was roused by the morning bell. The sun was shining cheerfully into the room, and the wild storm of the night seemed like a painful dream. She dressed herself carefully, and knelt to say her morning prayer, simple words which she had repeated a thousand times with as little thought as if they had been without sense or meaning. Those same words, spoken with earnest sincerity, would have called down a blessing from Him who loves to listen when children truly pray. Lucy had not forgotten her resolution to do right, but she trusted in her own feeble efforts.

A flush of pleasure lit the usually pale face of the little girl as she saw her father seated at the breakfast-table. She glided into the chair next him, and hardly ate anything, she was so busily occupied in watching his plate, and placing all he might need beside him. Harty, meanwhile, showed his delight in his father's company by being more talkative than usual. He had taken a long walk in the fresh morning air, and had many things to tell about what he had seen. What had interested him most was a tall tree, which the recent lightning had struck and splintered from the topmost bough to the root.

Lucy shuddered as the conversation brought the painful scene of the night afresh to her mind. It revived Mrs. Maxwell's memory also, for she turned to Lucy with a stern look, and said, "How came you with a light last night?"

Lucy blushed, and hastily answered, "I forgot to put it out when I went to bed."

"Careless child!" was Mrs. Maxwell's only reply; but nothing that she could have said would have made Lucy more unhappy than the fault she had just committed. What would she not have given, a few moments after, to recall those false words; but they had been spoken, and recorded in the book of God!

During breakfast Dr. Vale looked anxiously many times at the little girl at his side. There was nothing of cheerful childhood in her appearance; her slender figure was slightly bent, and her small face was pale and thin; her eyes were cast down, and she only occasionally looked up timidly from under the long lashes. Her little mouth was closed too tightly, and her whole expression was so sad and subdued, that he was truly troubled about it. It was plain to any one who looked at her that she was not happy.

The doctor dearly loved his children. Harty he could understand, but Lucy was a mystery to him. He felt certain that she loved him, for she never disobeyed him, and when he was with her she was sure to nestle at his side, and take his hand in hers; but she seldom talked to him, and was growing daily more silent and shy.

"Something must be done for her," he inwardly said. His thoughts were interrupted by Harty's calling out, "Why don't you eat something, Lucy? There, let me butter the baby some bread." Rude as this remark seemed, it was meant in kindness.

"I don't want anything, Harty," answered the sister. "Nonsense!" said he; "you are thin enough already: one of the boys asked me the other day, if my sister fed on broom-splinters, for she looked like one;" and the thoughtless boy gave a loud laugh.

It would have been much better for Lucy if she could have laughed too, but the tears filled her eyes, and she pettishly replied, "I should not care what I was, if it was only something that could not be laughed at."

At this Harty only shouted the louder. "Hush, Harty," said Dr. Vale; "for shame, to tease your sister. Don't mind him, Lucy," and he drew his arm tenderly around her. She laid her head on his lap, and cried bitterly. This kindness from her father would usually have made her quite happy, but now the falsehood she had first uttered made her feel so guilty that she could not bear his gentle manner. She longed to tell him all--her fault of the morning, her terror of the night before--all she had thought and suffered for so many weary days; but her lips would not move, and she only continued to sob. A ring at the bell called the father away, or she might have gained courage to open her heart to him. If Lucy could have been more with him, she would have found a friend who would have listened to all her little trials, and given her the truest consolation and advice. It was a source of sorrow to Dr. Vale that he could be so little with his family, and on this particular morning he felt it with unusual force.

"My little daughter is going on badly," he said to himself, as he entered his chaise, to make his round of visits. "The child is losing all her spirits; she needs a different companion from Harty; he is too boisterous, too much of a tease for my little flower. Mrs. Maxwell is not the person to make a child cheerful; I must have Rosa at home." The doctor was prompt to act when he had fixed upon a plan, and that day a letter was written to his eldest daughter, recalling her home. For three years before her mother's death, and since that time, Rosa had been under the care of her uncle, the Rev. Mr. Gillette. This gentleman had been obliged by ill-health to give up the exercise of his holy profession, but he did not cease to devote himself to his Master's cause. He received a few young ladies into his family, whose education he conducted with all the earnestness of a father. His chief aim was to lead his pupils in the pleasant paths of virtue, and make them to know and love the Lord. Rosa, as the child of his departed sister, had been peculiarly dear to him; he had spared no pains in moulding her character, and was now beginning to see the fruits of his labour in the daily improvement of his attractive niece. To Rosa, then, whom we shall soon know better, the doctor's letter was immediately sent.

Lucy, meanwhile, had no idea of the change that was soon to take place in her home. She passed a sad day, for the remembrance of the untruth she had spoken hung about her like a dark cloud. She had been taught that a lie was hateful to God, and sure to bring punishment. Mrs. Maxwell had made it a part of her duty to hear Lucy recite the Catechism every Sunday. These were trying times to the little girl, for the eye of the questioner was constantly fixed upon her; and if she failed or faltered in one of the long answers, she was sent to her room to study there until she could go through the part without hesitation. Mrs. Maxwell generally closed the Sunday evening exercise by telling Lucy how dreadful a thing it was to be a bad child, and that God saw her every moment, and would punish every wicked act she committed. From these conversations Lucy would go away in tears, resolved never to do wrong again; but these resolutions soon passed from her mind, until recalled by some fright or by the lesson of the next Sunday evening.

She only thought of God as an awful Judge, who would take delight in punishing her, and was far happier when she could forget Him.

THE MEDICINE.

The morning light streamed pleasantly into Lucy's pretty room, and there was the little girl quite dressed, and moving about as busily as Mrs. Maxwell herself. She had been up since the dew-drops began to sparkle in the sunlight. She could not make up her mind to confess her fault to her father or Mrs. Maxwell, but she was determined to be so very good as to quite make up for it. In the first place, she would put her room in order; that would please Mrs. Maxwell.

With a tremendous effort she turned her little bed, and then spread up the clothes with the greatest care. It was her first attempt in that way, and not very successful, but she was quite satisfied with it, and walked about surveying it as if it had been a masterpiece of housewifery.

The doctor was again at the breakfast-table, and he was pleased to see his little daughter looking so much more cheerful. Harty, as usual, was in excellent spirits; but his father's rebuke was still fresh in his mind, and he refrained from teasing his sister, and contented himself with telling funny stories about school occurrences, until even Mrs. Maxwell was forced to laugh.

As they rose from the table, Dr. Vale handed Lucy a small parcel, saying, "Take good care of this, my dear, and leave it at Mrs. Tappan's on your way to school; it is some medicine for her, which she will need at ten o'clock. I have a long ride to take in another direction, so good morning, my little mouse." Having kissed her affectionately, he jumped into his chaise, and was soon out of sight.

Lucy was unusually happy when she started for school; Harty had not teased her, Mrs. Maxwell had not found fault with her, and her father had trusted her with something to do for him.

The summer sky was clear above her, and her feet made not a sound as she tripped over the soft grass. The wild rose bushes offered her a sweet bouquet, and she plucked a cluster of buds as she passed. In the pleasure of that bright morning, Lucy forgot her good resolutions. She did not think of her kind Heavenly Father while enjoying His beautiful world. Fear alone brought Him to her mind: she remembered Him in the storm, but forgot Him in the sunshine.

Lucy was soon at Mrs. Tappan's gate, and was raising the latch, when the large house-dog came down the walk and stood directly in the way. She thought he looked very fierce, and did not dare to pass him. She walked on a short distance and then came back, hoping he would be gone; but no, he had not moved an inch. While she was doubting what to do, the school-bell rang; thrusting the parcel into her pocket, she hurried on, saying to herself, "As it is so late, I am sure father will not blame me."

She was hardly seated in school, however, before she began to be troubled about what she had done. "Perhaps Mrs. Tappan was very ill," she thought; the shutters were all closed, and her father had called there twice the day before, and had already seen her that morning. With such thoughts in her mind, of course Lucy did not learn her lesson; although she held the book in her hand, and seemed to have her eyes fixed upon it. When she was called up to recite, she blundered, hesitated, and utterly failed. The tears now filled her eyes. Glancing at the clock, she saw that it yet wanted a quarter of ten.

"Please, Miss Parker, may I go home?" she asked.

"Are you unwell?" asked the teacher, kindly.

"No," murmured Lucy.

"Then go to your seat," said Miss Parker, a little sternly; "and never ask me again to let you go home unless you have a good reason."

"I wouldn't mind her, she's as cross as she can be," whispered Julia Staples, as she took her seat at Lucy's side.

Lucy knew Miss Parker was not cross, yet she felt a little comforted by Julia's seeming interested in her trouble, and placed her hand in hers under the desk, as if to thank her new friend; for Julia Staples had seldom spoken to her before.

Wearily the hours of school passed away. At last the clock struck one, and the children were dismissed. Lucy was hurrying off, when Julia Staples called after her to wait, for she was going that way. Lucy did not like to be disobliging, and therefore stood still until her companion was quite ready.

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