Lucia's Trust.

BY

CATHARINE SHAW

AUTHOR OF "LILIAN'S HOPE," "DICKIE'S SECRET," "THE GABLED FARM," ETC.

————— NEW EDITION. —————

JOHN F. SHAW AND CO., LTD.

Publishers 3, PILGRIM STREET, LONDON, E.C.

BRITISH MANUFACTURE 1893

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

I. HOW IT CAME

II. AT THE COTTAGE

III. LUCIA'S QUEEN

IV. UNDER THE ELMS

V. LUCIA'S GIFT

VI. IN THE FOREST

VII. VOICES IN THE FOREST

VIII. MAY'S HEART'S DESIRE

IX. "A SLIP BETWIXT"

X. A PROMISE

XI. EVAN IS GLAD

XII. BARBARA'S GIFT

LUCIA'S TRUST.

CHAPTER I.

HOW IT CAME.

"I SUPPOSE you must go?" asked her cousin, reading the letter for the third time. "There is no choice, is there?"

"None whatever," said Lucia, thinking it all over with a very sober face.

That letter had come as a very unpleasant break in a most happy visit.

It was not often that Lucia could get away from her home, where a little flock of step-brothers and sisters kept her busy from morning till night.

But this time she had got away! Her mother had long planned for her to visit some cousins of her own in the North, and Lucia had been with them for a month already.

She had begun to feel that her home in London was a very long way off, and that her step-father, and even her own mother, had grown of less absorbing interest than formerly. Life seemed to centre in that charming country house, her cousins with their affairs began to fill her horizon, and when the letters came from her mother speaking of her step-father having been ill with the dreaded influenza, and being better again, she dismissed the matter with the comfortable hope that no one else would take it, and that mother would not be over-tired.

Then she did not hear for a week, but was too happy to be nervous, when one evening, just as she and her cousins were settling down for a cosy time, the second post brought her that news which overturned all her plans, and spoke of changes which might alter the aspect of her life for years to come. Her step-father had had a relapse; a dormant delicacy of the chest had suddenly developed, and he was ordered to take a sea voyage if his life were to be saved.

"I have had to choose between him and our children, and he needs me the most; so I am going with him," wrote her mother. "You, my darling, will act a mother's part, I know, while I am gone. Come home at once, that I may give it all into your hands, for we start directly."

There was no choice, as Emmie had said; but while Lucia sat silently in her corner, she confessed to herself that never in her life before had any news been so unwelcome.

She loved her mother devotedly, and so she did her little brothers and sisters. Her step-father had always been most kind and generous to her, and she loved him too. But for all that, she blamed herself bitterly that she thought almost more of her own disappointment in being called home, than of the great anxiety and grief which had fallen upon it.

Early the next morning Lucia woke up to the knowledge of something which seemed like a heavy weight on her spirit. Then it all flashed upon her.

She rose hastily, for a busy time was before her. On the previous night she had not done any packing, and very soon after breakfast she was to start on her homeward journey.

When she left her room, only the maids were astir. So she crept downstairs to the quiet rooms, and began to collect her possessions, which in a month's visit had become scattered about—her music, her work-basket, her easel and paint-box.

She carried an armful into the dining room and began to sort the music out, till, unconscious of time, she fell into a reverie over the words of one of the songs, and started violently when she heard herself addressed in an astonished tone by her aunt's housekeeper—

"Why, Miss Lucia, to be sure, miss, I thought something must have happened to see you sitting there all alone at this time of day! I was passing along the garden, going to feed my chickens, when I caught sight of your head, and heard your pretty voice singing more like the angels than anything else, to be sure!"

"Oh, Mrs. Brown, something has happened," exclaimed Lucia ruefully; "I am going home!"

"Deary miss, I heard something of it last night," responded the housekeeper in her cheery way; "and I was so very sorry for the cause of it, I'm sure." "Yes—," said Lucia slowly, "so am I, awfully sorry; but I cannot help wishing it had come at any other time—"

Mrs. Brown paused a moment, and then she said gently, "The Lord's time is always the right time, dear Miss Lucia—"

Lucia raised her eyes and looked into the placid face.

"I was so happy here," she murmured.

She turned over the songs, and as the words caught her eyes, they filled with tears.

"Your mother is in sore trouble, Miss Lucia, and she will be very glad to have a sight of your sweet face."

Lucia shook her head while she wiped her eyes. "I wish I were thinking about her instead of myself," she said.

Mrs. Brown was silent. She and Lucia had been very good friends when they had met, and had established a mutual confidence.

"You think I am a horrid selfish creature, don't you, Mrs. Brown?" she burst out at length.

"I think you only want one thing to make you the sweetest, dearest young lady—"

"And that is an unselfish spirit—?"

"No—o, miss, it isn't that—"

"Then what is it?"

"It's to look at things in the light of His countenance, Miss Lucia—not by our own dull lanterns, but in His pure light!"

"Look at things?" questioned Lucia. "How do you mean?"

"When we know that what happens comes from our Lord, it takes away the sting of troubles."

"I don't see that it can take away the sting of this," said Lucia. "Here I am, enjoying myself as much as I possibly can, and not going home for a fortnight more; and then father falls ill, and they are ordered abroad, and I have to go home to slave with the little ones, and all my pleasure is stopped. And, worst of all, I am just a horrid, selfish creature for thinking so, much less saying so! I can't see that in the light of His countenance!"

"Ah, dear Miss Lucia, that's just it! Everything looks dull and gloomy by the light of our own dark thoughts. Shall I tell you how I see the matter? You will not be hurt at me, because I've seen a great many troubles, and I've come out of the Slough of Despond on the side of the Celestial City!"

Lucia clasped the kind hand affectionately as she said, "Tell me, then; I shall not mind anything you say—"

"In the light of His will, this is what I see," said the housekeeper tenderly. "You have had a month to enjoy a nice change; and then the Lord says to you He has a lovely opportunity for you to do something for Him! You can be a real comfort to your step-father, who—you told me, didn't you, miss?—has been very good to you; a comfort to your mother, who has to bear a heavy trial; and you have five darling children given into your care to train for Him for ever so many months; and to get back in return their whole love and His gracious approval. Oh, Miss Lucia, isn't that sunshine enough for one day? And don't the clouds go chasing away in the light of His most blessed will?"

CHAPTER II.

AT THE COTTAGE.

BEFORE Lucia had time to realize that she was once more at home, the cab was driving from the door with her father and mother, and she was left in charge of her five brothers and sisters.

In the few days in which her mother had had everything to arrange, she had written for their own country cottage to be got ready for them, where the children could lead a free life, and be out of doors from morning till night; and to this they were to proceed at once.

The children were wild with excitement at the treat in store for them, and even their mother's sorrowful face, and their father's pale one, could hardly sober their exuberant joy at the thought of a whole summer in the country.

Lucia would have preferred to take charge in her own dear home, with their employments around her, and their own servants; but she supposed that mother know best, and certainly a cottage in a wood had its attractions to a romantic girl of nineteen. But she inwardly wished, almost bitterly, that she had been consulted before the plans were formed. When, however, she had arrived home, her mother's boxes were already packed, and their house was let for several months to a family of title, who had come to London for the season.

Poor Lucia, with her aching head and disappointed heart, tried hard to be patient; but she thought that the children had never seemed so tiresome before, and the difficulties seemed almost more than she could bear.

Evan, who was twelve, and had been the eldest at home during her long visit, seemed to have taken new airs upon him, and understood about everything so much better than she did.

Then Barbara (her darling generally) was also full of importance, helping nurse pack, and was the only one who could get Queenie to stop crying for her mother. Ivor and May had endless secrets, which they would not share with her. The maids were overwhelmingly busy in preparing the house for the fresh arrivals to-morrow, so that altogether Lucia was nearly distracted.

To-morrow morning! They were to go to-morrow morning! How was it possible that the confusion reigning around could be reduced to order by the next day?

She went to her room and looked round.

There were her boxes not even unpacked, but the one that stood open revealed a tennis dress which had been used only once, and which she remembered Alec Cransworth had said was very becoming. Oh, dear she should never wear that again while it was in fashion! Hot and angry tears splashed down her cheeks, she threw herself on her bed and wept despairingly.

If only her mother had proposed that she should bring home Emmie or Phyllis with her as a companion, it would not have been so bad. But to be shut up in a cottage with nurse and five tiresome children—

And then the quiet face of her aunt's housekeeper rose up before her mental vision, and she could almost hear her say, "Dear Miss Lucia, it makes all the difference if we love to do the Lord's will, and not our own. His will is always kindest and best."

"I do want to do His will," sobbed Lucia, "and I do want to be good and patient; but it is so bitterly hard to have your visit spoilt, and to be brought back to such a turmoil as this, without even having mother to share it!"

But she had not long to indulge her disappointment. Before many minutes had passed, a knock at the door summoned her to take part in the packing up which was going on around.

She was young, and in spite of herself almost, the preparations did take off her thoughts, and she found herself in the whirl of the excitement such a change involved.

But deep down in her heart the same discontented and bitter chord kept on vibrating, and what should have been music was turned to discord. Two or three years ago Lucia had come to feel her need of a Saviour, and had gone to Him to be pardoned and saved; and ever since she had gone on in her old life with very little difference either to herself or others. She rose each day, read a little of her Bible, prayed to have her sins forgiven and to be made good, and then she went on her daily round of duties and pleasures, without much further thought. Glad that she was safe, even thanking God that she was safe, but content to be kind and loving and unselfish to those who loved her so devotedly, and nothing more.

"I think Lucia hardly has a fault," her mother wrote to her aunt, and perhaps Lucia almost thought the same herself.

Then came the happy visit, her renewed acquaintance with her cousins and with their friends the Cransworths, and Lucia floated along the stream of pleasure for one delicious month, and woke up after a nightmare of partings and journeys and packings and partings again, to find herself looking out of a little parlour window on a green lawn, and a pond covered with waterlilies; while beyond was a hill covered with tender green trees and crowned with pines, whose straight delicate branches were set off by the sunset sky behind.

If her mother and father had been there she would have said that the view was almost too exquisite; but to-night, with the knowledge of her responsibilities, and with the voices of her five little step-brothers and sisters behind her back, the scene only gave her the heartache. And she went to rest in the little countrified bedroom, with the cloud still unlifted from her spirit—only longing that the three months should be over, and she should be able to go back to her London home.

The next morning, however, things began to look decidedly brighter.

The children no longer seemed so tiresome, and as Lucia sat at the breakfast table watching their smiling faces, she reproached herself that she had thought them last night the most disagreeable little creatures in existence.

"Lucia," said Barbara coaxingly, with a certain wistfulness in her voice, that Lucia detected in a moment, "could you come out with us this morning and explore the wood?"

"I do not think so—I have to unpack; but why do you not be satisfied to-day with going up this field and settling yourselves where nurse and I can see you?"

"Very well," assented Barbara, "only we did want you!"

"We'll bring home some wild flowers," said Evan. "Nurse says she can find a jar to put in the fireplace; this is so common and ugly, isn't it Lucia?"

"Rather," answered Lucia, turning her head to look; "only mind you keep within sight of the cottage."

"Oh, yes," exclaimed Ivor, "we will. This is the loveliest place I ever saw! Ten times as nice as the beach at Westgate."

So they found a basket, and with their lunch in the depths of it, to be replaced by flowers, set off together, Barbara being trusted with the care of Queenie (as they were not going out of sight), and May pleading to stay with nurse to help put away the contents of the ten boxes which at present made a warehouse of the narrow little hall.

CHAPTER III.

LUCIA'S QUEEN.

LOYALTY had been born and bred in the family of which Lucia was the eldest child.

Ever since she could remember, "The Queen" was her ideal, and Windsor Castle the place in all the world that she loved to be near.

This cottage almost beneath the shadow of Windsor Castle had belonged to her mother's family all her life, and every year she and her mother, when they were alone together in the old days, had migrated there for a month or two, so that every turret and tree was dear to them, and the Queen and Royal Family seemed to belong to them in a special way.

Thus it came to pass that as soon as Lucia had step-brothers and sisters, she instilled her enthusiasm about the Queen into their susceptible little hearts, and May especially felt that the Royal lady who lived so near the cottage was her Queen—her property—to be loved and reverenced as long as she lived.

The children were never tired of hearing Lucia tell how one day when she was about seven years old, as she was walking near the cottage quite alone, she saw a cloud of dust approaching along the road, and in a moment she guessed it was caused by the outriders surrounding the Queen's carriage, and with beating heart stood upon the path to see her go by.

Would the cavalcade come that way? Or would they sweep round the corner at the end of the road, and so pass out of view?

No; in another moment little Lucia knew she was safe. The outriders wheeled round, and came along her road, and the Queen's carriage was close to her, and the dear Queen sitting almost within reach of her!

Never could Lucia forget that proud moment! For, as with blushing, smiling face the little girl made a deep obeisance to her Sovereign, that gracious lady rose in her carriage, and, all unseen by any other eyes, bowed to the lonely little girl in the lonely country road.

"I wonder if I shall see the Queen?" questioned May that morning, as she carried armful after armful of clothes from the boxes to the drawers.

"Very likely you will," answered Lucia, "if we go into Windsor. It is but a chance thing to see the Queen out here, but of course she does drive every day somewhere when she is at home."

"Is she at home now?" asked May, colouring with anxiety.

"Yes, the flag is flying this morning; I saw it when I was out just now. I used always to feel dreary as a child when there was no flag on the Round Tower."

May did not say any more; but in her heart she formed the resolve that she would watch and watch till she too had seen the Queen.

Meantime, while the boxes were being emptied and the drawers were being filled, the other children were enjoying the first morning in the real country.

They were revelling in wild flowers, moss, stones, and ferns; making imaginary rooms among the furze bushes, and decking "the drawing room" with bunches of wild roses, while they picked endless fronds of bracken to form couches for the bedrooms.

A children's world is a happy world! No cares come to mar it, no anxieties enter in as to "what shall we eat or what shall we drink?" Their father's provision is sure to be right, he will provide dinner when dinner time comes; and here is lunch packed ready in the basket, why need they care?

Lucia put on her hat and went up the road to see how they were getting on, and when she watched them from behind the bushes, for they were too busy to notice her, some such thoughts as these went through her mind—

"I wonder why older people are so anxious," she said to herself, "why they let things worry them so? If we only trusted our heavenly Father as those children in their play-houses trust their earthly father, how different life would be!"

She turned round and retraced her steps, without disturbing the little party; but though she left them behind, she did not leave the thoughts which they had suggested.

She entered the cottage, fetched her easel and her painting materials, and sat down under the elms to sketch, while the bees buzzed dreamily, and the birds sang a ceaseless song.

That quiet morning was a turning-point in Lucia's life.

As her fingers were busily at work, making a sketch for her cousins, her mind went back to her aunt's housekeeper, and then to all her own disappointment and rebellion since.

Had not her Father—her heavenly, loving Father—seen all these things beforehand, and prepared the path for her to walk in, that therein she might glorify Him?

But it was so terribly disappointing to be called away just as her enjoyment had seemed to be at its height.

And yet He knew that! Why was it that He allowed it then?

She put down her brush and leaned her chin on her hand, looking off into the country landscape dreamily. Why did He? echoed again and again. And there was no answer but the ceaseless melody of the birds as they rejoiced in the Father's sunshine.

CHAPTER IV.

UNDER THE ELMS.

"YOUR Father knoweth!"

Lucia raised her head suddenly. It seemed almost as if the waving breeze in the trees overhead had whispered the words audibly.

Then if He knew, why was it? Could she know too?

She thought of an earthly father—the very best and dearest she knew—and she wondered how he would do with his children.

He would take them a journey, and each day or each hour he would tell them which way to go and what he wanted them to do. The children would not question his wisdom or his love. The more unknown the way, the more they would trust him. They would trust and obey.

"Your Father knoweth."

"Yes, He does," said Lucia beneath her breath, "and I will trust and obey. I will not struggle any more, but take my Father's will as entirely best."

When she had reached that point, there came a flood of sunshine to illumine what had looked so dark before.

The care of the five little brothers and sisters was no longer a burden too great for her shoulders; the broken visit with its hardly understood charms ceased to cause her such a heartache whenever she thought of it; for she had resigned the one and the other to His will, who surely loved her, and instead of fret and pain came a peace that passed all understanding.