University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.
TRUTH WILL PREVAIL.

Lucy, in her new sphere, which she felt to
be a high and happy one, was daily acquiring
knowledge in the domestic arts, and daily gaining
on the faults she had contracted in her various service-places.
Never was there an eye more vigilant
than Mrs. Hyde's; never a quicker perception
of the faults of those of whom she had the supervision.
But hers was the keen perception of the
parent, and the admonition that followed it was
gentle; for, in imitation of Him whom she served,
“love was her motive and reformation her object.”
Lucy received long letters from her mother, assuring
her of her welfare, telling her that her sisters
were well placed, and that Jemmie was profiting
by her remittances. We insert a postscript
written by himself. “The first letter that ever I
write, I long ago said should be to dear, dear Lucy;
and here it is. Can you read it? It's pretty crooked,
but that is because my hand trembles, thinking
I am writing to you. Dear Lucy, do leave off
working, and come here to live. The money you
have sent me is enough to pay my master a whole
year, and by that time, he says, I shall write and
cipher as well as anybody. When I think of
what you are doing for me, I try so hard to improve
that my heart beats like a drum, and then mother

stops me. Oh, it is so beautiful here, Lucy; you
can see so much sky, clear from mountain to
mountain. Sometimes the girls draw me along
the river bank, and we stop under the willows and
talk of you and Charlie. Give my best love to
Charlie, and tell him I dreamed”—then followed
two effaced lines—“mother has blotted over this,
because she says you would not like to tell him;
so good-by, dear Lucy.”

So happy was Lucy, that she would scarcely
have remembered the miserable affair at Mrs.
Hartell's, if Charles had not called daily to ask if
she had heard nothing more from that “infamous
wretch,” the gentlest name he vouchsafed Adéle;
and each day she repeated her entreaties that he
would be more patient, and wait till sufficient time
had elapsed for Mr. Hartell's return; “if justice is
not done you then, Lucy, don't preach patience
to me any longer,” said Charles; “patience may be
very Christian in you, but in my opinion it's very poltronish
in me, besides being impossible.” “Well,
wait, Charles, till to-morrow,” Lucy replied to his
last outbreak; “Mrs. Hyde says it is possible Mr.
Hartell may be here to-morrow.” The next morning,
at dawn, Mrs. Hyde's door-bell was rung violently,
and a message came to Lucy, entreating her
to go immediately to Mr. Hartell's, for Eugene
was dying; when she entered Mrs. Hartell's nursery,
she found Eugene in his father's arms in a
deathlike stupor. Mr. Hartell, half distracted, was
walking up and down the room. The physician,
who had done all his art could do, was anxiously
watching the child's rigid features. Mrs. Hartell
was wrapped in her shawl, shivering and sighing,

and Adéle wringing her hands, crying violently, and
exclaiming at every breath, “Mon Dieu! mon Dieu!
Dieu me pardonne! pauvre enfant! Ah, mon
Dieu, que j'etois morte. God forgive me, poor child!
would that I were dead!” Lucy gazed around her
in grief and amazement. No one seemed to see her,
till Ophelia, looking up from the apron in which she
had buried her face, ran to her, sobbing, “Oh,
Lucy! I and papa sent for you; he came home
about an hour ago, and came right into the nursery
to see Eugene, for ever since he got your letter—he
got a letter from you, Lucy—he thought he never
should see him again; and don't you think he found
him going into a fit, and Adéle asleep, and the vial
of laudanum standing there on the table! Only
think! he has thrown up once, and the doctor says,
if he can only be roused again, but, oh dear! oh
dear! see how he lies in papa's arms.” Lucy
threw aside her cloak and bonnet, and went up
to Mr. Hartell. “Pray, sir,” she said, “let me
speak to him.”

“God bless you, Lucy, is it you? Oh, my boy,
Lucy! he's going!”

“Eugene! darling Eugene!” cried Lucy, kissing
his lips; “Eugene, don't you know me?” The
voice penetrated to the little fellow's spirit. He
opened his eyes; a faint ray of joy shot through
his heart and eyes; he made a feeble effort to
extend his hands. Lucy caught him in her arms,
and throwing up the window, and setting wide open
the door, she tossed him up and down in the draught
of fresh air, repeating his name in her natural
tone of playful tenderness. Every voice but hers
was hushed till Ophelia exclaimed, “Father, he

smiles! he certainly does smile!” The violent
motion, the fresh air, and the moral excitement of
the voice of that friend, whom the little fellow
loved better than anything else on earth, roused
the energies of nature. The desired physical effect
followed; there was a free ejection from the
stomach, and in half an hour the physician pronounced
him safe. “That's right!” said Mr.
Hartell to Eugene, who, resting his drooping head
on Lucy's bosom, kept one arm fast round her
neck; “that's right! cling to her, she has saved
your life; God for ever bless her. How dared you,”
he added, turning to his wife, who had been as
immoveable and as impotent as a statue, “how
dared you neglect the warning she gave you? You
had every reason to confide in her, and none in
that she-devil!” Mrs. Hartell began, in her own
justification, and finished, in spite of her husband's
repeated exclamations, the story of the theft.

“A damnable contrivance!” cried Hartell, “a diabolical
lie! I am sure of it. Here!” he continued,
dragging Adéle forth from the corner into which
she had slunk, “stand before this innocent girl, and,
as ye hope for any mercy from me, tell the whole
truth.”

“Oh monsieur! oh madame!” said Adéle, falling
on her knees, “je suis coupable, mais si malheureuse.
I am guilty, but so wretched!”

“None of your French jabber; speak English,
so that Lucy can understand every word you say.
God bless him! he's putting his lips up to kiss you,
Lucy.”

Adéle rolled up her eyes, made a deprecating

gesture to madame, and proceeded, “I had unfortunately,
by a little mistake—”

“None of your `unfortunately's' and `mistakes;'
tell a plain story.”

“Mon Dieu! I had worn madame's cape to one
society, and torn it unfor—ah, mon Dieu!—waltzing—and—and—merci,
monsieur! my head is in
one such confusion.”

“Tell the truth, that will unsnarl it.”

Adéle, finding there was no use in attempting to
weave any sort of self-defence or exculpation into
her relation, proceeded to confess, that, partly to
guard against the communication of Lucy's detection
of the laudanum, and partly to conceal her
abuse of the cape from her mistress, she had stolen
Lucy's key while she slept, and deposited the cape
in her trunk. “I was sure of it!” cried Ophelia,
hardly able to restrain herself till Adéle had finished,
“I told you so, mamma.”

“And anybody might have told you so,” said
Hartell, too much exasperated at his wife's folly
to keep any terms, even in the presence of his
daughter; “anybody that had common sense might
have known that this good girl was innocent, and
that tawdry piece of French trumpery was fit for
just such a piece of iniquity.”

“That's always the way,” said Mrs. Hartell,
half crying and half indignant; “if there is anything
the matter with the servants, the fault is always
laid on my shoulders.”

“And, in Heaven's name, on whose shoulders
should it be laid if not on yours? When you took
upon yourself to be the mistress of a family, you
assumed responsibility; you virtually promised such

supervision of your servants as should be best for
them, best for me, and best for your children.”

“Bless your soul, Mr. Hartell, I never promised
—I never thought of any such thing.”

“I believe you,” he replied, turning away with
ineffable disgust, and with the desperate conviction
that, save by a miracle, the blind could not be
made to see. In the mean time, Adéle, perceiving
blame laid elsewhere, felt her shoulders somewhat
lightened, and she was thunderstruck when
Mr. Hartell said to her, “Are you ready for Bridewell?”

“Oh, monsieur!” she exclaimed, clasping her
hands and almost rolling her eyes out of their
sockets.

“Be silent; no punishment is severe enough
for you. You have sent out this innocent girl disgraced
and suffering, and all but murdered my
child.”

“Mr. Hartell,” interposed Lucy, “I have not
suffered, and I never felt disgraced—pray do not
punish her on my account. She is dreadfully
punished already; I do not believe she meant to
give Eugene enough to hurt him.”

“That is the true truth, if monsieur will let me
tell it. Dieu te benit, ma chere fille, vous avez un
si bon cœur. God bless you, my dear! you have
such a good heart.” There are few hearts so indurated
as not to be softened by such generosity
as Lucy's, and Adéle for the first time felt something
like real penitence, and wept tears of gratitude
and honest grief. Mr. Hartell stooped to kiss
his boy, and Lucy whispered, “Adéle has had such
an awful lesson, that, maybe, if you would let her

off, it would do her more good than punishing
her.”

“I will do anything you ask, my child. Since
Lucy asks it, Adéle, you may go away; I'll not
molest you. Paek up, and be off immediately. But
don't attempt to get another service-place; I'll send
your bad name after you.” This was something
like the mercy to the dog, “I'll not kill thee, but
I'll turn thee out and call thee mad.” Such mercy
as it was, Adéle was glad to profit by it; and, without
waiting to express one of the sentiments she
had professed for “madame,” she prepared her
luggage and was off. There can be no attachment
between the employer and the employed
where no virtue on either side has been brought
into action.

Lucy was now beset by Mr. Hartell, who offered
her enormous wages, and used every persuasive
argument to induce her to remain and take
the sole charge of his child. Eugene himself
urged his cause almost irresistibly by the mute
eloquence of his tender eye, and his arm fixed
lovingly over her shoulder. But Lucy was inexorable.
She felt too deeply the advantages of her
position at Mrs. Hyde's to relinquish them even for
such entreaties, and she could only be induced to
promise that, with Mrs. Hyde's permission, she
would remain till a good nurse could be procured.
This matter being settled, she modestly asked Mr.
Hartell's leave to send for her friend, Mrs. Lovett's
son, that he might hear Adéle's explanation from
his lips. Charles came on the instant, and listened
to the explanation coolly and as a matter of
course; but when Mr. Hartell came to the expression

of his gratitude to Lucy, and his estimation of
her virtues, Charles's cheek glowed and his eye
moistened. Ophelia whispered to Lucy, “Do look
at him, Lucy! Why don't you look at him! you
are not half so glad as he is!”