University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.
FALSE APPEARANCES.

The next morning, while Mrs. Hartell was in
the nursery, during some very common conversation
about French embroidery, Adéle asked, as it
seemed, casually, “if madame had found the superb
cape she had missed.” Mrs. Hartell said she had
not; “that she and her maid had searched everywhere
for it; she was sure it must have been stolen;
and if it were not for letting Mr. Hartell know
how much it cost, she would get him to inquire at
the police-office.”

“Oh, madame! cost so much! it was but seven
hundred franc—one hundred and fifty dollar for the
most superb 'broidery of Paris, and the full Mechlin
trimming the most rich, is nothing at all!”

Mrs. Hartell was really mortified at having set
a higher value on a particular sum than her liberal
domestic, and she replied, “Oh, of course it is not
the money it cost I care about; but there is not
such another cape in New-York. Nobody has anything

like it. No one can get anything like it; for
I was assured in Paris the pattern was destroyed,
and there never should be another like it.”

“Does that make it any more valuable, mamma?”
asked Miss Ophelia, who happily was yet ignorant
of the ludicrous ambitions and rivalries of the
dressing world.

“Certainly, my dear,” interposed Adéle. “I
lived with one lady who would not wear nothing
everybody else wore; and one time she burnt up
one new pretty hat because she saw one just like
it. Ah, madame, you must find that cape, so distingué—why
not search your own house before
you search the police?”

Mrs. Hartell shrugged her shoulders. “The
servants will all be angry—and then Mr. Hartell
will be angry.”

“They cannot be angry with you, madame, for
I make the proposition. I am one of the servants,
and you shall search my trunk, my box, my bureau
first.” And, suiting the action to the word, she took
her keys from her pocket and gave them to Ophelia,
who, like all children, delighted with the idea
of exploring, flew to Adéle's trunk; and, opening it,
exposed a confused mass of clothes, finery, little
boxes, knickknacks, and toys of every description,
such as would naturally be accumulated by a
French femme de chambre. Miss Ophelia was so
much amused that she seemed to have forgotten the
object of her quest, and Adéle came to her aid, and
saying, “You will never find the cape this way,
Miss Ophelia,” she proceeded with the keen scent
of a trained policeman to ransack boxes, unroll
stockings, turn the sleeves of dresses, shake out

the skirts, &c., &c., and thus she went through all
her own repositories, of course finding not a thread
that did not belong to her, for well had they been
sifted that morning. “Now, Miss Ophelia,” she
said, “ask Lucy for her key to her one trunk—she
always wear it round her neck—she very careful
of her key—she have such rich clothes, you know.”

“For shame, Adéle! I am sure Lucy looks
prettier in her plain clothes than an old painted up
person would, even dressed in mamma's clothes.”

“Ophelia! no hints.”

“Well, then, mamma, she need not hint at Lucy
if she does not want to be hinted at; and besides, I
won't unlock Lucy's trunk. She steal mamma's
cape, indeed! I would trust her with all the gold
in the world.”

“Why don't you unlock your own trunk, Lucy?”

Lucy blushed deeply, and said “she had rather
not.” Adéle threw up both hands, and looking at
Mrs. Hartell, exclaimed, “Mon Dieu! est il possible?”

“No, it is not possible!” retorted Ophelia; and,
fired by Adéle's insinuation against her favourite,
she caught the riband by which Lucy's key was
suspended and unlocked the trunk. On the top
lay a pencil sketch of Charles Lovett, that he had
the Sunday before given to Lucy. Ophelia grasped
it, and held it up to Lucy archly. Lucy, trembling
with embarrassment, begged her to give it to her;
and while a little contest ensued between them,
Adéle, casting, ever and anon, stolen glances at
Mrs. Hartell, proceeded in her investigations. It
was a short piece of work. There was something
in the neatness and order with which our humble

friend's scanty stores were arranged that would
have appealed even to Adéle's heart, if she had
not been intent on self-preservation. “You must
excuse me, Lucy,” she said, as she shook out
Lucy's frocks and unrolled her stockings; “I only
serve you as I serve me myself—it is nearly
finished, and then, as me, you will be tranquil—
one thing more, and we have done—look, madame!”
she took the last article; a cotton petticoat,
from the bottom of the trunk, unfolded, and shook
it. The cape fell from within it! There was a
general exclamation. Adéle's reiterated “Mon
Dieu! mon Dieu!” drowned every other. After
the first burst of surprise Mrs. Hartell seemed entirely
occupied with examining a zigzag tear in
the cape, which marred her pleasure in her recovered
property; a pleasure that otherwise would
have engrossed her to the exclusion of all emotion
at the discovery of such guilt in an apparently
innocent young creature; for, in her eyes, Lucy
was but a little servant girl; a species of the human
genus with whom she had about as much sympathy
as with the bees and the silkworm, whom she
fancied were created solely to make honey for the
table, and spin silk for ladies to wear. “Oh,
Lucy! how could you? how could you?” exclaimed
Ophelia, mortified and grieved.

Lucy was near fainting, and pale as death. Ophelia's
exclamation brought the colour to her face,
and tears and voice to her relief. “I did not take
the cape,” she said; “I don't know how it came
into my trunk—Adéle must know!”

“Oh, mon Dieu! mon Dieu! listen, madame!
You have never seen one such bold person—one

such hypocrite—did you not suspect when she
wished not her trunk examined?—did you not see
her blush and tremble?—did she not turn pale as
one guilty person when the cape dropped?—and
now she accuse me! Ah, c'est un horreur!”

“Quite shocking, indeed!” responded Mrs. Hartell,
faintly, her eyes still fixed on the rent in her
cape. “Do you think, Adéle, Justine could darn
this so it would not show?”

“I believe not, madame.”

“If she had only stolen it, and not torn it,” resumed
Mrs. Hartell, “I could have forgiven her—
but she really does deserve the penitentiary.”

Adéle, bad as she was, started from such a consequence;
and affecting to pity Lucy, she said,
“Ah, madame, she is very young!”

“The penitentiary, mamma!” exclaimed Ophelia;
“Lucy shall not go to the penitentiary—I will
ask papa—he will be home before dinner—she
shall not go to the penitentiary, if she is ever so
guilty.”

Lucy's distress was increased by her embarrassment
as to what it was best for her to say or do;
her faculties were stunned; she almost lost the
sense of her identity. She felt alone, helpless, and
exposed to judgment without mercy. Ophelia's
affection touched the springs of her heart, and, as
she afterward said, “first sent her thoughts to the
right place;” and that, having breathed a silent
trust in Him who seeth in darkness as well as in
light, she felt more composed! Still the tears
poured over her cheeks, and little Eugene, sat
on her lap, put up his hand and wiped off first one
cheek and then the other; then put up his lips to

kiss her, and finding all did not to, he too burst into
tears, and hid his face on her bosom. “Whatever
becomes of me,” thought Lucy, folding her arms
round the little fellow, “I will do what I can for
you!” and, after a little consideration, she resolved
that she would, if possible, remain in the house till
Mr. Hartell's arrival, and reserve her statement for
his ear. In the mean time Adéle whispered to her
mistress, and both retired for a few moments. In
that interval Adéle strongly urged sending Lucy
immediately off without other punishment than loss
of character and loss of place. “If,” she urged,
“she stays till Mr. Hartell arrives, she will frame
her own story—she will put everything upon me—
Mr. Hartell will believe her—men always believe
a very pretty young girl against one who has the
misfortune to be not young—madame will be left
without any French servant, and that dear angel,
master Eugene, would speak English first, just as
the young ladies had.”

Convinced by these precious arguments, Mrs.
Hartell returned to the nursery, and announced to
Lucy that she must leave the house within an hour.
Lucy entreated that she might be permitted to stay
till evening, and Ophelia seconded her entreaties,
and then declared she “should not go till papa
came.” Her mother's reiterated decision only
made her more vehement, till Adéle whispered to
her that if she cared for Lucy she had best let her
go at once, for all the servants knew what had
happened, and no one could say how soon a police-officer
might be in the house. This roused the
common childish terrors of an officer of justice,
and she now urged Lucy to hasten her departure.

Lucy, however, resolved to abide all risks but that
of leaving Eugene before his father was warned
of his danger. Her resolution was, however, suddenly
changed by the arrival of a letter from Mr.
Hartell, saying that business had unexpectedly
taken him to Richmond, Virginia. Now there
was no reason for delay, but whither go? Though
she had served all with whom she had lived faithfully,
and had left them with a spotless character,
they had never manifested that sort of interest in
her that inspired the poor child with confidence to
apply to them in her present stress. Had they
performed their duty—had they been friends as
well as employers, with what confidence might this
poor girl have appealed to them, sustained as she
was inwardly by that “strong-siding champion, conscience?”
She thought of going to her mother at
once; but though she was sure her mother would
believe her story, others might not, and she could
not bear the thought of returning to her with a
blasted character. She hoped that if she remained
in the city the truth might come out. Her heart
prompted her to go at once to Charles Lovett; there
she was sure of faith and sympathy to the full.
But what could he do for her? nothing; while her
resorting to a young man as her only friend might
render her liable to further and more cruel imputations.
What, then, should she do? She had not
a shilling in the world, for two days before she had
sent all her unexpended earnings to “dear Jemmie.”
Again she passed her employers in review,
and among them Mrs. Ardley, always good-natured
and kindly disposed, had made the most favourable
impression, and she had half resolved to go and
tell her story to her, when a recollection of the
lady whom she had seen at Mrs. Ardley's, the Mrs.
Hyde who “talked so like mother,” darted into
her mind. The reminiscence seemed like a revelation
from Heaven. “She had such feelings for
servants,” thought Lucy; “she will hear me, and
give me good advice at any rate.” Her decision
made, she proceeded to the preparations for her
departure. And first, undaunted by fear of Adéle,
she asked to speak alone with Mrs. Hartell. To
this Adéle objected, and that lady bade her say
whatever she had to say without any fuss. She
then, in spite of Adéle's interruptions and protestations,
told the story of the laudanum calmly and
exactly. There are few who give all the weight
that should be allowed to general character against
unfavourable appearances in a single case, especially
if they have appealed to their own senses.
Certainly Mrs. Hartell was not one of the exceptions.
She had seen “with her own eyes” the
cape taken from Lucy's trunk. She had witnessed
Lucy's reluctance to have her trunk examined, and
her confusion afterward; and she readily acquiesced
in Adéle's suggestion, that the story of
the laudanum was an after thought, “trumped up”
to save herself, and to take revenge on Adéle for
the part, innocent and unpremeditated! which she
had in exposing Lucy's guilt. Lucy remembered
the drops on her nightgown, and referring to them
as a corroboration of her testimony, she produced
it, but the stain was effaced! After a little hesitation,
after again and again kissing Eugene, who
clung to her as if he understood all that was going
on, she told the story of his shrieks, and showed
the marks still on his arm. Adéle, quick as
thought, exclaimed, “Mon Dieu! l'ingrate! l'ingrate!”
and proceeded to tell a story of Lucy having
let Eugene fall on his coral bells, and bribed
her to secrecy by many promises of future carefulness.
Mrs. Hartell's maternal instincts were
deadened. She listened with credulity to Adéle;
and telling Lucy she had no more time to hear
her falsehoods, bade her leave the house instantly.
Poor Lucy embraced Eugene for the last time;
and, crying as heartily as he did, she unlocked
his arms from her neck, and gave him to Ophelia,
whispering an entreaty that she would watch over
him till her father's return. Ophelia answered by
a burst of tears and outcries against Adéle; and
Lucy, begging her to be quiet, left the room. The
servants, who had heard through Ophelia the explosion
in the nursery, gathered round her to express
their sympathy and their detestation of
Adéle. They all offered to speak a kind word for
her wherever she went. Lucy was comforted by
their good-will, and she left Mrs. Hartell's with a
composure that, in her circumstances, would seem
wonderful, did we not know the power of calm endurance
in a soul conscious of integrity, and therefore
stayed on God. “I am sure I have done
right,” she repeated to herself, “I am sure my
mother will approve. I am sure the time will
come when nobody can make Charles feel like
blushing for me; and, more than all, I am sure that
God, who knows all, is my friend, so I ought not to
feel very unhappy—but, oh, poor little Eugene!”
and she brushed the fast-coming tears from her
eyes as she entered a shop to ask for a directory.