"Well, for sure, Aunt Persis will be some fain to see you!" said Tom
Fenton, as he and his uncle, old Anthony, went forward up the hill.
"But whence come you, now, Uncle? Are you very weary? Eh, but I'm glad
you've won home safe!"
"God bless thee, my lad! Ay, He's brought me home safe. A bit
footsore, to be sure, and glad enough of rest: but gladder to be
suffered to do His will, and minister to His suffering servants. Whence
come I? Well, from Kidderminster, to-day; but--"
"Dear heart! but you never footed it all the way from Kidderminster?"
"No, no, dear lad. A good man gave me a lift for a matter o' eight
miles or more. But, dear me! I mind the time I could ha' run nigh on a
mile in five minutes, and ha' trudged my forty mile a day, nor scarce
felt it. I reckon, Tom, lad, thou'rt not so lissome as I was at thy
years. Well, to be sure! 'Tis all right; I'm only a good way nearer
Home."
They walked on together for a few minutes in silence. Tom's thoughts
had gone back from the momentary pleasure of welcoming his uncle, to
whom he was greatly attached, to his sore disappointment about Jenny.
"What is it, Tom?" said the old man quietly.
"Oh, only a bit of trouble, Uncle. Nought I need cumber you with."
"Jenny Lavender?" was the next suggestion.
"Ay. I thought not you knew how I'd set my heart on her, ever since she
was that high," said Tom, indicating a length of about a yard. "I've
never thought o' none but her all my life. But she's that taken up with
a sorry popinjay of a fellow, she'll not hear me now. I'd always
thought Jenny'd be my wife."
Poor Tom's voice was very doleful, for his heart was sore.
"Thou'd alway thought so," said the quiet voice. "But what if the Lord
thinks otherway, Tom?"
Tom came to a sudden stop.
"Uncle Anthony! Eh, but you don't--" and Tom's words went no further.
"My lad, thou'rt but a babe in Christ. 'Tisn't so many months since
thou first set foot in the narrow way. Dost thou think He means Jenny
Lavender for thee, and that thy feet should run faster in the way of His
commandments for having her running alongside thee? Art thou well
assured she wouldn't run the other way?"
Old Anthony had spoken the truth. Tom was but a very young Christian,
of some six months' standing. He had never dreamed of any antagonism
arising between his love to Christ and his love to Jenny Lavender.
Stay--had he not? What was that faint something, without a name--a sort
of vague uneasiness, which had seemed to creep over him whenever he had
seen her during those months--a sense of incongruity between her light
prattle and his own inmost thoughts and holiest feelings? It was so
slight that as yet he had never faced it. He recognised now it was
because his heart had refused to face it. And conscience told him,
speaking loudly this time, that he must hold back no longer.
"Uncle Anthony," he said, in a troubled voice, "I'm sore afeard I've not
set the Lord afore me in that matter. I never saw it so afore. But now
you've set me on it, I can't deny that we shouldn't pull same way. But
what then? Must I give her up? Mayn't I pray the Lord to touch her
heart, and give her to me, any longer?"
The old man looked into the sorrowful eyes of the young man, whom he
loved as dearly as if he had been his own son.
"Dear lad," he said, "pray the Lord to bring her to Himself. That's
safe to be His will, for He willeth not the death of a sinner. But as
to giving her to thee, if I were thou, Tom, I'd leave that with Him.
Meantime, thy way's plain. `Be ye not unequally yoked together.' The
command's clear as daylight. Never get a clog to thy soul. Thou canst
live without Jenny Lavender; but couldst thou live without Jesus
Christ?"
Tom shook his head, without speaking.
"To tell truth, Tom, I'm not sorry she's going away. Maybe the Lord's
sending her hence, either to open her eyes and send her back weary and
cloyed with the world she's going into so gaily now, or else to open
thine, and show thee plain, stripped of outside glitter, the real thing
she is, that thou mayest see what a sorry wife she would make to a
Christian man. No, I'm not sorry. And unless I mistake greatly, Tom,
the time's coming when thou shalt not be sorry neither. In the
meantime, `tarry thou the Lord's leisure.' If He be the chief object of
thy desire, thy desire is safe to be fulfilled. `This is the will of
God, even our sanctification.'"
They turned to the left at the top of the hill, and went a few yards
along the lane, to a little cottage embowered in ivy, which was
Anthony's home.
"Wilt thou come in, Tom, lad?"
"No, Uncle, I thank you. You've opened my eyes, but it's made 'em smart
a bit too much to face the light as yet. I'll take a sharp trudge over
the moor, and battle it out with myself."
"Take the Lord with thee, lad. Satan'll have thee down if thou doesn't.
He's strong and full o' wiles, and if he can't conquer thee in his
black robe, he'll put on a white one. There's no harm in thy saying to
the Lord, `Lord, Thou knowest that I love Jenny Lavender'; but take care
that it does not come before, `Lord, Thou knowest that I love _Thee_.'
Maybe He's putting the same question to thee to-night, that He did to
Peter at the lake-side."
"Ay, ay, Uncle. I'll not forget. God bless thee!"
Tom wrung old Anthony's hand, and turned away.
One moment the old man paused before he went in.
"Lord, Thou lovest the lad better than I do," he said, half aloud. "Do
Thy best for him!"
Then he lifted the latch, and met a warm welcome from his wife Persis.
"Mrs Jenny, your servant!" said the smooth tones of Robin Featherstone
at the farmhouse door, about twenty hours later. "The horse awaits your
good pleasure, and will only be less proud to bear you than I shall to
ride before you."
Jenny's silly little heart fluttered at the absurd compliment.
"Farewell, Grandmother," she said, going up to the old lady. "Pray,
your blessing."
Old Mrs Lavender laid her trembling hand on the girl's head.
"May God bless thee, my maid, and make thee a blessing! I have but one
word for thee at the parting, and if thou wilt take it as thy motto for
life, thou mayest do well. `Look to the end.' Try the ground afore
thou settest down thy foot. `Many a cloudy morrow turneth out a fair
day,' and `'tis ill to get in the hundred and lose in the shire.' So
look to the end, Jenny, and be wise in time. `All that glittereth is
not gold,' and all gold does not glitter, specially when folk's eyes be
shut. We say down in my country, `There's a hill against a stack all
Craven through,' and thou'lt find it so. God keep thee!"
Jenny's father gave her a warm embrace and a hearty blessing, and his
hand went to his eyes as he turned to Robin Featherstone.
"Fare you well, Robin," said he, "and have a care of my girl."
The elegant Mr Featherstone laid his hand upon that portion of his
waistcoat which was supposed to cover his heart.
"Mr Lavender, it will be the pride of my heart to serve Mrs Jenny,
though it cost my life."
He sprang on the brown horse, and Jenny, helped by her father, mounted
the pillion behind him. Women very seldom rode alone at that day.
Kate ran after them, as they started, with an old shoe in her hand,
which she delivered with such good (or bad) effect that it hit the horse
on the ear, and made it shy. Happily, it was a sedate old quadruped,
not given to giddy ways, and quickly recovered itself.
"Good luck!" cried Kate, as they rode away.
A second horse followed, ridden by one of Colonel Lane's stable-boys,
carrying Jenny's two bags.
It was not a mile from the farm to Bentley Hall, and they were soon in
the stable-yard, where Jenny alighted, and was taken by Featherstone
into the servants' hall, where with another complimentary flourish he
introduced her to the rest of the household.
"My lords and ladies, I have the honour to present to you the Lady Jane
Lavender."
"Now you just get out of my way, with your lords and ladies," said the
cook, pushing by them. "Good even, Jenny. We've seen Jenny Lavender
afore, every man jack of us."
Mr Featherstone got out of the way without much delay, for the cook had
a gridiron in his hand, and he had been known before now to box
somebody's ears with that instrument.
He recovered his dignity as soon as he could, and suggested that Jenny
should go up to the chamber of her new mistress.
"Maybe Mrs Millicent should be pleased to take her," he said, making a
low bow to Mrs Lane's maid.
"She knows her way upstairs as well as I do," answered Millicent
bluntly. "Have done with your airs, Robin! and prithee don't put Jenny
up to 'em.
"Now, Jenny, you run up and wait for Mrs Jane; she'll be there in a
minute, most like. You can hang your hood and cloak behind the door."
There were no bonnets in those days, nor shawls; women wore hoods or
tall hats on their heads when they went out, and cloaks in cold weather;
when it was warm they merely tied on a muslin or linen tippet, fastening
it with a bow of ribbon at the throat.
The gown sleeves then came down mostly to the wrist; but sometimes only
to the elbows, where they were finished with a little frill. How the
neck was covered, in the house, depended on its owner's notions. If she
were gay and fashionable, it was not covered at all. But if she were
sensible and quiet, she generally wore the same kind of muslin tippet
that was used on warm days out of doors. Old women sometimes wore the
close frill round the neck, which had been used in Queen Elizabeth's
time; but this was quite gone out of fashion for younger ones.
Mrs Jane's room was empty. Jenny knew her way to it well enough, for
she had often been there before; but her heart beat high when she saw
something in the corner that had never been there before--a neat, little
low bed, covered with a quilt of coarse, padded blue silk. That was for
Jenny, as Jenny knew. The room was long, low, and somewhat narrow.
Four windows, so close together as to have the effect of one, ran along
the whole length of one end, filled with small diamond-shaped panes of
greenish glass.
In the midst of these stood a toilet-table, whereon were a number of
pots and boxes, the uses of which were as yet unknown to the new maid.
The large bed was hung with flowered cherry-coloured satin; an inlaid
chair, filled with cushions, stood before the fireplace, and a small
Turkey carpet lay in front of it.
Jenny stood contemplating everything, with a sense of great elation to
think that her place henceforward would be in the midst of all this
comfort and grandeur. Suddenly a quick step ran up the polished
staircase, the door opened, and a young lady made her made her
appearance.
Her description will serve for the ladies of that day in general.
Her skirt came just down to the foot, and was moderately full; it was
made of green satin. Over this was the actual gown, of tawny or
yellowish-brown silk, trimmed with silver lace. The skirt was open in
front, and was bunched up all round so as barely to reach the knees.
The bodice, which was tight to the figure, was laced up in front with
silver; it was cut low on the neck, and over it was a tippet of clear
muslin, tied with green ribbon to match the skirt. The sleeves were
slightly fulled, and were finished by very deep cuffs of similar muslin,
midway between the wrist and the elbow. The young lady's hair was
dressed in a small knob behind; it came a little over the forehead at
the front in a point, and flowed down at the sides in slender ringlets.
"Oh, Jenny, are you come? That is right," said she.
"Yes, madam, to serve you," answered Jenny, dropping a courtesy.
"Very good. Here, pick up these pins, and put them into that box. You
must learn to dress me, and dress my hair. Dear me, you have all to
learn! Well, never mind; the best woman living had to begin once."
"Yes, madam," said smiling Jenny.
Mrs Jane sat down before the toilet-table, and with more rapidity than
Jenny could well follow, showed her the articles upon it, and the uses
for which they were designed.
"Here is pearl powder; that is for my forehead. This is rouge, for my
cheeks and lips. Now, mind what you do with them! Don't go and put the
white powder on my cheeks, and the red upon my nose! This is pomatum
for my hair; and this empty box holds my love-locks (you'll have to
learn how to put those in, Jenny); in this bottle is a wash for my face.
I don't dye my hair, nor use oils for my hands--one must draw the line
somewhere. But the other matters you must learn to apply."
Jenny listened in silent amazement. She had never realised till that
moment what an artificial flower her young mistress was.
Her own cosmetics were soap and water; and she was divided between
disgust and admiration at the number of Mrs Jane's beautifiers. Poor
Jenny had no idea that Mrs Jane used a very moderate amount of them, as
contrasted with most fashionable ladies of her day.
"I must have a word with you, Jenny, as to your manners," said Mrs
Jane, more gravely. "I can't do to have you falling in love with
anybody. It would be very inconvenient, and, in fact, there's nobody
here for you. Remember _now_, you are above Featherstone and all the
men-servants; and you must not set your cap at the chaplain, because
he's Mrs Millicent's property."
Above that elegant gentleman, Mr Featherstone! Jenny felt as if she
trod on perfumed air. She was not in the least surprised to be told
that she was not to marry the chaplain; the family chaplain, of whom
there was one in every family of any pretension, was considered a poor
mean creature, whose natural wife was the lady's maid; and Jenny quite
understood that Mrs Millicent took precedence of her.
"You take your seat at table, Jenny, next below Mrs Millicent. Of
course you know you are not to speak there? If any one should have such
ill-manners as to address you, you must answer quite respectfully, but
as short as possible. Well, now to tell you your duties. You rise
every morning at five of the clock; dress quietly, and when you are
ready, wake me, if I have not woke sooner. Then you dress me, go with
me to prayers in the chapel, then to breakfast in the hall; in the
morning (when I am at home) you follow me about in my duties in the
kitchen, stillroom, and dairy; you help me to see to the poultry, get up
my muslins and laces, and mend my clothes. In the afternoon you go out
visiting with me, work tapestry, embroider, or spin. In the evening, if
there be music or dancing, you can join; if not, you keep to your
needle."
Jenny courtesied, and meekly "hoped she should do her duty." Some
portions of this duty, now explained to her, were sufficiently to her
taste; others sounded very uninteresting. These were the usual services
expected from a lady's maid two hundred years ago.
"Very well," said Mrs Jane, looking round. "I think that is all at the
present. If I think of any other matter, I will mention it. Now ring
that little bell on the side-table, and Millicent shall give you your
first lesson in dressing my hair."
Jenny found that first lesson a trial. Millicent was quick and precise;
she gave her instructions almost sharply, and made little allowance for
Jenny's ignorance and inaptitude.
She seemed to expect her to know what to do without being told, or at
the utmost to need only once telling. Jenny found it necessary to have
all her wits about her, and began to think that her new situation was
not quite so perfect a Paradise as she had supposed it.
From this exercise they went down to supper in the hall, where Jenny
found herself placed at the higher table between Millicent and the
steward--a stiff, silent, elderly man, who never said a word to her all
supper-time. Robin Featherstone sat at the lower table; for the two
tables made the only distinction between the family and the household,
who all ate together in the hall.
The next discovery was that she must never ask for a second helping, but
must take what was given her and be content. Accustomed to the freedom
and plenty of the farmhouse kitchen, Jenny sadly felt the constraint of
her new life. She was obliged to fall back for her consolation on the
pleasure of her elevation above all her old associates. It was rather
poor fare.
When, after assisting Mrs Jane to undress, with sundry snubbings from
Millicent, and some not ill-natured laughter from her young mistress at
Jenny's blunders, she was at last free to lie down to rest herself, she
was conscious of a little doubt, whether the appellation of "Mrs
Jenny," the higher place at the table, and the distinction of being
nobody in the drawing-room, were quite as agreeable as plenty to eat and
drink, and liberty to run into the garden, dance and sing whenever she
chose to do so.
The Sunday which followed was spent as the Holy Day was wont to be spent
by Cavalier families who were respectable and not riotous.
The Lanes were members of the Church of England, but the Church had been
abolished, so far as it lay in the power of those in authority at that
time. Many of the clergy were turned out of their livings--it cannot be
denied that some of them had deserved it--and the Book of Common Prayer
was stringently suppressed. No man dared to use it now, except
secretly. Those solemn and beautiful prayers, offered up by many
generations, and endeared to their children as only childhood's memories
can endear, might not be uttered, save in fear and trembling, in the
dead of night, or in hushed whispers in the day-time.
Early in the morning, before the world was astir, a few of Colonel
Lane's family met the chaplain in the private chapel, and there in low
voices the morning prayers were read, and the responses breathed. There
was no singing nor chanting; that would have been too much to dare. The
men who had themselves suffered so much for holding secret conventicles,
and preferring one style of prayer to another, now drove their
fellow-countrymen into the very same acts, and imposed on them the same
sufferings.
This secret service over, the family met at breakfast, after which they
drove in the great family coach to Darlaston Church. The present Vicar,
if he may so be termed, was an independent minister. These ministers,
who alone were now permitted to minister, were of three kinds.
Some were true Christians--often very ripely spiritual ones--who
preached Christ, and let politics alone. Another class were virulent
controversialists, who preached politics, and too often let Christianity
alone. And a third consisted of those concealed Jesuits whom Rome had
sent over for the purpose of stirring up dissension, some of whom
professed to be clergy of the Church, and some Nonconformists.
The gentleman just now officiating at Darlaston belonged to the second
class. His sermon was a violent diatribe against kings in general, and
"Charles Stuart" in particular, to which the few Royalists in his
congregation had to listen with what patience they might.
Jenny Lavender did not carry away a word of it. Her head was full of
the honour and glory of driving in the Bentley Hall coach (wherein she
occupied the lowest seat by the door), and of sitting in the Bentley
Hall pew.
She only hoped that Ruth Merston and Dolly Campion, and all the other
girls of her acquaintance, were there to see her.
They drove back in the same order. Then came dinner.
As Jenny took her seat at the table she perceived that a stranger was
present, who sat on the right hand of Mrs Lane, and to whom so much
deference was paid that she guessed he must be somebody of note. He was
dressed in a suit of black plush, slashed with yellow satin, and a black
beaver hat; for gentlemen then always wore their hats at dinner. His
manners charmed Jenny exceedingly. Whenever he spoke to either of the
ladies, he always lifted his plumed hat for a moment. Even her model
gentleman, Robin Featherstone, had never treated her with that courtesy.
Jenny was still further enchanted when she heard Mrs Lane say to him,
"My Lord."
So interested and excited was she that she actually presumed to ask
Millicent, in a whisper, who the stranger was. Millicent only
demolished her by a look. The steward, on the other side of Jenny, was
more accommodating.
"That is my Lord Wilmot," he said; "an old friend of the Colonel."
Jenny would have liked to ask a dozen questions, but she did not dare.
She already expected a scolding from Millicent, and received it before
an hour was over.
"How dare you, Jane Lavender," demanded Jenny's superior officer, "let
your voice be heard at the Colonel's table?"
"If you please, Mrs Millicent," answered Jenny, who was rather
frightened, "I think only Mr Wright heard it."
"You think! Pray, what business have you to think? Mrs Jane does not
pay you for thinking, I'm sure."
Jenny was too much cowed to say what she thought--that Mrs Jane did not
pay her extra to hold her tongue. She only ventured on a timid
suggestion that "they talked at the lower table."
"Don't quote the lower table to me, you vulgar girl! You deserve to be
there, for your manners are not fit for the upper. Everybody knows the
lower table is only for the household"--a word which then meant the
servants--"but those who sit at the upper, and belong to the family,
must hold their tongues. If we did not, strangers might take us for the
gentlewomen."
Jenny silently and earnestly wished they would.
"Now then, go into the parlour and behave yourself!" was the concluding
order from Millicent.
Poor Jenny escaped into the parlour, with a longing wish in her heart
for the old farmhouse kitchen, where nobody thought of putting a lock
upon her lips. She felt she was buying her dignities very dear.
What was she to do all this long Sunday afternoon? Being Sunday, of
course she could not employ herself with needlework; and though she was
fond of music, and was a fairly good performer on the virginals, she did
not dare to make a noise.
She was not much of a reader, and if she had been, there were no books
within her reach but the Bible and a cookery book, on the former of
which, for private reading, Jenny looked as a mere precursor of the
undertaker.
Sunday afternoon and evening, at the farmhouse, were the chief times of
the week for enjoyment. There were sure to be visitors, plenty of talk
and music, and afterwards a dance: for only the Puritans regarded the
Sabbath as anything but a day for amusement, after morning service was
over. Farmer Lavender, though a sensible and respectable man in his
way, was not a Puritan; and though his mother did not much like Sunday
dancing, she had not set her face so determinately against it as to
forbid it to the girls.
The long use of _The Book of Sports_, set forth by authority, and
positively compelling such ways of spending the Sabbath evening, had
blunted the perception of many well-meaning people. The idea was that
people must amuse themselves, or they would spend their leisure time in
plotting treason! and the rulers having been what we should call
Ritualists, they considered that the holiness of the day ended when
Divine service was over, and people were thenceforward entitled to do
anything they liked. Yet there in the Bible was the Lord's command to
"turn away from doing their pleasure on His holy day."