Lucy (Chapter_02)

Chapter 2d. I'ls est dangereux de tout dire aux enfants, il est plus dangereuse encore de leur laisser tout ignorer [?] Marmontel

A heavy price must all pay, who thus err In some shape: Let none hope to fly the danger For sooner or late, Love is his own avenger Byron

The young man whom I had seen at the Cottage, was not, as I then imagined the brother of Lucy, Lo, he was her betrothed husband, & William, for that was his name had lost both his parents in his early childhood, they were poor day labourers who at their death left nothing for the support of their only child; Nature had been kinder to him than fortune; the boy possessed a sprightly intelligence countenance, & such "winning ways," as Mrs Donald said, that he quite gained the hearts of this good couple & they adopted him as their son, thinking it a pity that such a fine little fellow should go to the poor house. As he grew up, William by his fidelity & industry amply repaid the kindness of Donald. Lucy was his constant companion, & playmate, & often too, his assistant in the lighter labours of the farm. She could drop corn--bind sheaves, & gather apples, or turn the hay. In all seasons & all places making hay in the warm summer day, or shelling corn in the chimney corner, whether the summer's sun were shining or the storms of winter howled around them, all occupations were alike to Lucy & William, if they did but share each others labours. Their days of childhood [were?] passed--but the old folks still thought of them as children & were so fond of William, that they forgot he was not indeed their son & allowed him & their daughter to live together in the familiarity & fondness of Brother & sister. William took care however to remind Lucy that though he called her sister, she was something still dearer, ( would one day, he hoped, be still nearer. A hope, which he ventured one day to express to the old man & which he was not forbidden to indulge, though, as Donald told him, they were yet too young--mere children, but at the end of five or six years if he would be a good lad, he should have Lucy, & a snug little cabbin & farm to boot, if by his labour he should assit in earning the sum necessary for such a purchase:

the good old Scotchman was very fond of conforming himself to scriptural examples, & in the present case, he found, as Laban had before him, that love, quickened industry, & like Jacob, William found, that it sweetened & lightened labour.

Still the old folks thought of him & Lucy as children, & as such left them in the enjoyment of the freedom & familiarity in which they had grown up. But nature was not equally forgetful, she kindled in their bosoms a tenderness more lively, more ardent than what children feel; & which added to the fondness of childhood, the endearments of youth.--Can it be wondered at, if such liberty is sometimes abused? And if the simple maiden goes astray from the path of virtue, will not the careless & too indulgent parent share in the guilt--as well as the grief? The very purity & innocence of Lucy, by concealing from her, the danger to which she was exposed accellerated the fall.

Mothers! while you read the sad fate of Donald's daughter, resolve to double your vigilance, expose not ardent & confiding youth to an intercourse so unguarded & unrestricted--Ignorance, is not Innocence & knowledge of an impending danger often enables us to avoid it--"Forwarned, fore armed," says the proverb--But the artless Lucy was not forwarned,--And in loving William dreamed not of guilt or danger, until it was too late to avoid either.-

And then--The conscious girl, dared not meet her father's eye, & never afterwards trusted herself alone with William. Frail indeed, but still loving virtue, she kept by the side of her mother, during the long evenings of this eventful winter--her knitting in her hands, with down cast eyes, and cheeks

now pale--now glowing, she pursued her task, tho when a timid glance stole across the room, she could discern the youth's restlessness & impatience & often met a reproachful or angry look.

Those waning hours of happy courtship, which according to the custom of the country, the young lovers had passed together in a different room from that in which the family sat, were now over, for Lucy would not understand either his looks or sights, or signals, but sat immoveably by her mother's side.--If by chance they met, or were left alone, she resisted all his entreaties to be less unkind; she avoided his carresses, & when he would upbraid her with no longer loving him, she would only answer, "the time will come William, when you will not think so--Let us work the harder, that the time may come the sooner. When the sum, my father requires is made up, you will build a cabin, & we will live together the live-long day--then William you will not say I do not love you."

Ignorant, as she was innocent, Lucy suspected no danger, & thought by the pennance she was new imposing on herself, & [?] she was amply repairing the fraility of a moment.

Her fond mother saw with surprise the altered manners of her child & when she heard her frequent sighs as she sat silently beside her, cast on her many an enquiring glance, & the father when he percieved the estrangement of the young folks, & the evident disagreement that existed between them, thought of the days of his own youth & supposed they had had some love quarrel, & was not the less pleased with his lovely daughter for the distance at which she kept

(4) her lover, saying to his wife one night as they talked the matter over

"William will think the more of her deary young fellows should be kept in check, they prize the game the more for having had a long hunt."

The old woman shook her head, observing "I fear, all isn't as it should be."

"Why now deary do you forget them there days when you were a girl, how you often teased me with some sucy notion, but Lord knows tho' you gave me many a heart ache, I loved you all the better for it."

The mother sighted, but said nothing more.

Mrs Wentworth might have saved herself the trouble of posting me such a note--I should realy like to know what she means by it to send a poor strelly creature and her brat to me! thy Lady bountiful --- --her mark this time--very easy to be charitable at other peoples expence, no,---I dont pretend to be such a charitable lady as she is and I shall not be furthering myself with any of her found boys and vagabonds,--so my pretty madam you may march and tell the lady that sent you, to next time she gives letters of recommendance let it be of people she would like herself--pious christian as she thinks herself, its not doing to others, as she likes others to do to her and so I shall let her know--sending her trampery to me.{Lucy heard the last words as she retreated from the presence of the offended lady. She now hesitated about delivering the other notes fearful of as harsh reception . what could she do? Whether could she turn? To live any --a dependant on Richard's charity was not to be thought of She had no alternative, and with a heavy heart and ---- ---she followed the servant. Another long and dreary mile had she to go before she arrived at the destined place. "A good pious clergyman," thought she, "Oh if any one take pity on me, surely a good pious clergyman will." The clergyman was indeed a truly good man and his wife a good woman: they were geniune christians--but christians of the severest cast. When he read the note he shook his head and handed it to his wife. "Well, my dear," said he, "do you not think that note contains a strange request, to take into our service, or to recommend to some other respectable place, a poor stroll that Mrs. Wentworth herself, knows nothing about." "Very strange indeed," answered his wife, "with what face could you preach against vice if you, yourself has borned and encouraged it?" "Why I could'nt have the face to preach against