Fortune May, the dairy-maid at Bentley Hall, came into the farmhouse at
supper-time that Sunday evening.
"Well, they're all gone," said she, "and the house shut up. They say
the Parliament 'll send folks down to take it some day this week, and
'll give it to some of their own people."
"Ay, I hear Mr Chadderton, whose land joins the Colonel's, has applied
for it," answered Farmer Lavender. "Though he's a Roundhead, he's a
friend of the Colonel's, and I shouldn't wonder if he give it him back
when King Charles comes in."
"That'll not be so soon, I take it," observed his mother.
"The time's out of joint," said the farmer. "I'd as lief not say
what'll be or won't be."
"Jenny, I've a good jest to tell you," said Fortune, with a twinkle in
her eyes. "I did not see you in time afore you left the Hall. You'll
mind, maybe, that Robin and me and Dolly Campion went together to the
green, Sunday even?"
Yes, Jenny did remember, and had been rather put out that Featherstone
should prefer Fortune's company to hers, though a little consoled by the
reflection that it was on account of her superior dignity.
"Well!" said Fortune, telling her tale with evident glee, "as we went up
the blind lane come a little lad running down as hard as ever he could
run. `What's ado?' says I. `Mad bull! mad bull!' quoth he. Dolly was
a bit frighted, I think; I know I was. But will you believe it, Robin,
he takes to his heels without another word, and leaves us two helpless
maids a-standing there. Dolly and me, we got over the gate into the
stubble-field, and hid behind the hedge; and presently we saw some'at
a-coming down the lane, but I thought it came mortal slow for a mad
bull. And when it got a bit nigh, lo and behold! it was Widow Goodwin's
old dun cow, as had strayed. There she was coming down the lane as
peaceable as could be, and staying by nows and thens to crop the grass
by the roadside. We'd a good laugh at the mad bull, Dolly and me; and
then says I to Dolly, `Let's go and hunt out Robin.' So we turned back,
but nought of him could we see till we came to the big bean-field, and
then a voice comes through the hedge, `Is he by, maids?' Eh, but he is
a coward! Did you think he'd been so white-livered as that?" Farmer
Lavender laughed heartily. Jenny was exceedingly disgusted. She tried
to persuade herself that Fortune's tale was over-coloured, perhaps
spiteful. But one and another present chimed in with anecdotes of
Featherstone's want of moral and physical courage, till disbelief became
impossible.
"How will he get along in France, think you?" said Fortune. "They've
naught but frogs to eat there, have they?"
On that point the company was divided, being all equally ignorant. But
Farmer Lavender's good sense came to the rescue.
"Why," said he, "Jenny here tells me Colonel Wyndham's got a Frenchman
to his cook; and he'd make a poor cook if he'd never dressed nought but
frogs, I reckon."
"They'll have a bit o' bread to 'em, like as not," suggested the
waggoner.
"Well, I must be going," said Fortune, rising. "Jenny, what's come of
your grand gown as Mrs Jane gave you? We looked to see you in it this
Sunday. Folks 'll think it's all a make-up if you put it off so long."
"'Tisn't finished making up," said Kate, laughing.
"You'll see me in it next Sunday, if you choose to look," replied Jenny,
in a rather affronted tone.
She was put out by Fortune's hint that the dress was considered a
fiction; and she was thoroughly annoyed by the story about
Featherstone's cowardly conduct. Bravery was one of the qualities that
Jenny particularly admired; and she could not help feeling angry with
Featherstone for thus lowering himself in her esteem. She thought of it
many times during the week, when she was altering the flowered tabby to
fit herself, and by the time that the dress was finished, Jenny's regard
for Robin Featherstone was about finished also. Love she had never had
for him; but he had flattered her vanity, and she liked it.
The next Sunday morning came, and Jenny dressed herself in the flowered
tabby, with a pink bow on her muslin tippet. With a gratified sense of
pride, she passed Fortune and Dolly Campion on her way up the
churchyard; not less gratified to hear their respective whispers.
"Well, it wasn't a make-up, then!" said Dolly, in a rather disappointed
tone.
"Dear heart! isn't she fine?" responded Fortune.
Little did Jenny Lavender think, as she passed up the aisle to her
father's pew, that the Jenny who entered that church was never to leave
it again. There was a stranger in the pulpit that day--a man of a very
different sort from the usual preacher. He was an old man, and the
style of his sermon was old-fashioned. Instead of being a learned and
closely-reasoned discourse, seasoned with scraps of Latin, or a
political essay on the events of the day, it was a sermon such as had
been more common in the beginning of the century--simple, almost
conversational, striking, and full of Gospel truth. Such a sermon Jenny
Lavender had never heard before.
The text was Genesis, chapter 32, verse 26: "I will not let Thee go,
except Thou bless me." The preacher told his hearers in a plain
fashion, without any learned disquisitions or flowery phrases, what
blessing meant; that for God to bless a man was to give him, not what he
wished, but what he really needed for his soul's welfare; that many
things which men thought blessings, were really evils, and that all
which did not help a man towards God, only hurried him faster on the
road to perdition. He told them that Christ was God's greatest
blessing, His unspeakable gift; and that he who received Him was in
truth possessed of all things. When he came near the end of his sermon,
he bent forward over the pulpit cushion, and spoke with affectionate
earnestness to his hearers.
"Now, brethren, how many here this day," he said, "are ready to speak
these words unto the Lord? How many of you earnestly desire His
blessing? What, canst thou not get so far, poor soul? Be thine hands
so weak that thou canst not hold Him? Be thy feet so feeble that thou
canst not creep thus far up the ladder at the top whereof He standeth?
Well, then, let us see if thou canst reach the step beneath--`Lord, I
most earnestly desire Thy salvation.' Or is this too far for thy foot
to stretch? Canst thou say but, `Lord, I desire Thy salvation,' however
feeble and faint thy desire be? Poor sinful soul, art thou so chained
and weak, that thou canst not come even so far? Then see if thy
trembling foot will not reach the lowest step of all: `Lord, make me to
desire Thy salvation.' Surely, howsoever sunk in the mire, and
howsoever blind thou be, thou canst ask to be lifted forth, and to have
sight given thee. Brethren, will ye not so do? When ye fall to your
prayers this even, ere ye sleep, will ye not say so much as this? Yea,
will ye not go further, and run up the ladder, and cry with a mighty
voice, `I will not let Thee go, except Thou bless me'?"
When Jenny Lavender came out of church, she stood on the second step of
the ladder. She scarcely heard Abigail Walker's taunt of "Well, if Mrs
Jane did give her the gown, I'll go bail she stole that pink ribbon."
Such things were far beneath one who had set foot on that ladder. And
Jenny did not stay at the bottom; she ran up fast. By the time that she
knelt down at her bedside for her evening prayers, she had come to the
fourth step--"I will not let Thee go, except Thou bless me."
The last atom of Jenny's old admiration for Robin Featherstone, which
had been already shaken, vanished that day. The Spirit of God, who had
touched her heart through the preacher, led her to see that folly,
vanity, and frivolity were utterly out of concord with Him. And then
came a feeling of regret for the unkind flippancy with which she had
treated Tom Fenton. Jenny knew that Tom was a Christian man; it had
been one reason why she despised him, so long as she was not herself a
Christian woman. There was a gulf between them now, and of her own
digging. Tom had given over coming to the farm except on business; he
gave her a kindly "Good morrow!" when they met, but it was no more than
he gave to Kate, or any other girl of his acquaintance; and Jenny saw
nothing of him beyond that. On every side she heard his praises, as a
doer of brave and kindly actions. She knew that, apart from the mere
outside, there was not a man to be compared to Tom Fenton in the whole
neighbourhood. It was bitter to reflect that the time had been when Tom
was ready to put himself and all he had at her feet, and she had only
her own folly to thank that it was over. No wonder Jenny grew graver,
and looked older than she used to be. Her father was uneasy about her;
he feared she was either ill or unhappy, and consulted his sensible old
mother.
"Nay," said Mrs Lavender, "Jenny's not took bad; and as for her
sadness, it's just womanhood coming to her. Don't you spoil it, Joe.
The furnace burns up the dross, and let it go! It won't hurt the good
gold."
"You don't think then, mother, there's any fear of the dear lass going
into a waste, like?" asked Farmer Lavender anxiously.
"No, Joe, I don't; I'll let you know when I do. At this present I think
she's only coming to her senses a bit."
The old preacher appeared no more in the pulpit at Darlaston; but so far
as Jenny Lavender was concerned, he had done the work for which he was
sent there. Jenny had not a single Christian friend except old Persis
Fenton; and she kept away from Tom's aunt, just because she was his
aunt. She was therefore shut up to her Bible, which she read
diligently; and perhaps she grew all the faster because she was watered
direct from the Fountain-Head. Old Mrs Lavender was wise in a moral
sense, but not in a spiritual one, beyond having a general respect for
religion, and a dislike to any thing irreverent or profane. Farmer
Lavender shared this with her; but he looked on piety as a Sunday thing,
too good to use every day. So Jenny stood alone in her own family.
While all this was passing at the farm, Colonel Lane and Mrs Jane were
speeding, post-haste, to France. The Colonel explained to Featherstone,
whom alone of his servants he took with him, that he and his sister
having had the honour of performing an important service to the King,
their lives were in danger from the resentment of the Parliamentary
party.
The King himself was now safe at Paris, where they hoped to join him;
and on arriving there, if Featherstone wished to return home, he thought
there was no doubt that he could get a passage for him in the suite of
some person journeying to England. If, on the contrary, he preferred to
remain in France, the Colonel would willingly retain his services.
"I have entered into arrangements," he concluded, "whereby my rents will
be secure, and will be remitted to me from time to time while we remain
in France. I trust it may not be long ere the King shall be restored,
and we can go back with him."
Featherstone requested a little time to think the matter over. He
certainly had no desire to leave the Colonel before reaching Paris, a
city which he wished to see beyond all others.
"Ay, take your time," answered the Colonel. "My sister will provide
herself with a woman when we arrive thither. In truth, it was not for
her own sake, but for Jenny's, that she left her at home."
This conversation confirmed Featherstone in two opinions which he
already entertained. First, he was satisfied that an understanding had
been arrived at between the Colonel and his friend Mr Chadderton,
whereby the latter was to remit the Colonel's rents under colour of
keeping the estates for himself. Secondly, he was more convinced than
ever that Will Jackson had played the traitor, and that it was through
him the Parliament had been made aware of the Colonel's service to the
King's cause, whatever it might be.
Dover was reached in safety, and the party embarked on board the
_Adventure_ for Calais. It took them twenty hours to cross; and before
ten of them were over, Robin Featherstone would have been thankful to be
set down on the most uninhabited island in the Pacific Ocean, with no
prospect of ever seeing Paris or anything else, might he but have been
safe upon dry land. It was in a very limp, unstarched condition of mind
and body that he landed on the Calais quay. Colonel Lane, an old
traveller, and an excellent sailor, was rather disposed to make merry at
poor Robin's expense; for toothache and sea-sickness are maladies for
which a man rarely meets with much sympathy.
They slept the last night at Saint Denis, where the Colonel encountered
an old acquaintance, an English gentleman who was just starting for
Paris, and who assured the Colonel that he should communicate the news
of his approach to the King.
"Truly, I am weary of horse-riding as I may well be," said Mrs Jane, as
she mounted the next morning, to traverse the eight miles which lie
between Saint Denis and Paris. "Poor little Jenny Lavender! 'tis well I
brought her not withal; she would have been dog-weary ere we had won
thus far."
For this short distance Mrs Jane rode by herself, the Colonel mounting
another horse beside her. Featherstone followed, and a French youth
came last, conducting the baggage-horse. Rather more than half the
distance to the capital had been traversed, when a large cavalcade was
seen approaching. It consisted of a number of gentlemen on horseback,
preceding one of the large cumbrous coaches then in common use, in which
sat two ladies and a little girl. The coach was drawn by six heavy
Flanders mares, which went at so leisurely a pace that they could easily
be accompanied by a crowd of French sight-seers who ran before, behind,
and all around them.
As soon as the two parties came within sight of each other, one of the
gentlemen who preceded the coach rode forward and met the travellers,
pulling off his hat as he came up to them. Featherstone perceived that
he was Lord Wilmot.
"How do you, Colonel Lane?" he said. "Mrs Jane, your most obedient! I
pray you be in readiness for the high honour which awaits you. His
Majesty comes himself to meet you, with the Princes his brothers, and
the Queen in her coach, desiring to do you as much honour, and give you
as good a welcome as possible."
"We are vastly beholden to their Majesties," replied Colonel Lane,
looking as pleased as he felt, which was very much: for the honour thus
paid to him was most unusual, and showed that the young King and his
mother considered his service an important one. "Featherstone!" he
called, looking back, "keep you close behind, or we may lose you."
Featherstone tried hard to obey, but found the order difficult of
execution. The crowd was only bent on seeing the meeting, and cared not
a straw whether Featherstone were lost or not. He knew not a word of
French, and was aware that if he did lose his master, he would probably
have no little trouble in finding him again. Moreover, he was very
curious to see the King--partly on Kate Lavender's principle, of
afterwards having it to talk about. Just at that awkward moment his
horse took to curvetting, and he had enough to do to manage him. He was
vaguely conscious that one of the riders, who sat on a fine black horse,
had come forward beyond the rest, and was cordially shaking hands with
Mrs Jane and the Colonel. He heard this gentleman say, "Welcome, my
life, my fair preserver!" and dimly fancied that the voice was familiar.
Then, having reduced his horse to decent behaviour, he lifted up his
eyes and saw--Will Jackson.
Will Jackson, and none other, though now clad in very different garb!
He it was who sat that black barb so royally; the King's plumed hat was
in his left hand, while the right held that of Mrs Jane. It was at
Will Jackson's words of thanks that she was smiling with such delight;
it was he before whom Colonel Lane bent bare-headed to his saddlebow.
The awkward lout who had never been in a gentleman's service, the
ignorant clown, fresh from the plough-tail, the Roundhead, the traitor,
had all vanished as if they had never been, and in their stead was King
Charles the Second, smilingly complimenting the friends to whose care
and caution he owed his safety. If the earth would have opened and
swallowed him up, Featherstone thought he would have been thankful. But
a worse ordeal was before him. As he sat on his now quiet horse, gazing
open-mouthed and open-eyed, the King saw him, and the old twinkle, which
Featherstone knew, came into the dark eyes.
"Ha! I see an old friend yonder," said he comically. "I pray you,
fetch my fellow-servant up to speak with me."
Poor Featherstone was laid hold of, pulled off his horse, and pushed
forward close to that of the King.
"How do, Robin?" asked the merry monarch, who heartily enjoyed a little
affair of this sort. "Nay, look not so scared, man--I am not about to
cut off thine head."
Featherstone contrived to mumble out something in which "forgive" was
the only word audible.
"Forgive thee! what for?" said King Charles. "For that thou knewest me
not, and tookest me for a Roundhead? Why, man, it was just then the
finest service thou couldst have done me. I have nought to forgive thee
for save a glass of the best ale ever I drank, that thou drewest for me
at breakfast on the morrow of my departing. Here, some of you"--His
Majesty plunged both hands in turn into his pockets, and, as usual,
found them empty. "What a plague is this money! Can none of you lend
me a few louis?"
The pockets of the suite proved to be almost as bare as those of the
King. The Duke of Hamilton managed to find a half-louis (which he well
knew he should never see again); Queen Henrietta was applied to in her
coach, but in vain, as she either had no money, or did not choose to
produce it, well knowing her son's extravagance and thoughtlessness.
Colonel Lane had a sovereign, which he furnished. The King held them
out to Featherstone.
"There!" he said, "keep somewhat for thyself, and give somewhat to the
little dairy-maid that took my part, and would have had me knock thee
down. Tell her she'll make a brave soldier for my Guards, when all the
men are killed. Divide it as thou wilt. Nay, but I must have a token
for pretty Mrs Jenny." His Majesty cast his eyes about, and they fell
on his plumed hat. Without a minute's consideration he loosened the
diamond buckle. "Give her that," said he, "and tell her the King
heartily agrees with her that Will Jackson's an ill-looking fellow."
It was just like King Charles to give away a diamond buckle, when
neither he nor his suite had money to pay for necessaries. Robin
Featherstone stepped back into the crowd, where he was pretty well
hustled and pushed about before he regained his horse; but he managed to
keep fast hold of the money and the diamond clasp. He was rather
troubled what to do with them. The jewel had so pointedly been intended
for Jenny, that he could scarcely help dealing rightly in that instance;
but the division of the money was not so clear. A man who was just and
generous would have given the sovereign to Fortune, and have kept the
half-louis (worth about 8 shillings 6 pence) for himself; but Feathers
tone was not generous, and not particularly anxious to be just. The
portion to be appropriated to Fortune dwindled in his thoughts, until it
reached half-a-crown, and there for very shame's sake it stayed.
"And why not?" demanded Mr Featherstone of his conscience, when it made
a feeble remonstrance. "Did not His Majesty say, `Divide it as thou
list'? Pray who am I, that I am not to obey His Majesty?"
Had His Majesty's order been a little less in accordance with his own
inclinations, perhaps Mr Featherstone would not have found it so
incumbent on him to obey it. It is astonishing how easy a virtue
becomes when it runs alongside a man's interest and choice.
Featherstone had never learned self-denial; and that is a virtue nearly
as hard to exercise without practice as it would be to play a tune on a
musical instrument which the player had never handled before. In that
wonderful allegory, the _Holy War_--which is less read than its
companion, the _Pilgrim's Progress_, but deserves it quite as much--
Bunyan represents Self-Denial as a plain citizen of Mansoul, of whom
Prince Immanuel made first a captain, and then a lord. But he would
never have been selected for either honour, if he had not first done his
unobtrusive duty as a quiet citizen. Self-denial and self-control are
not commonly admired virtues just now. Yet he is a very poor man who
has not these most valuable possessions.
Robin Featherstone stayed with the Colonel just as long as it suited
himself, and until he had exhausted such pleasures as he could have in
Paris without knowing a word of the French language, which he was too
lazy to learn. What a vast amount of good, not to speak of pleasure,
men lose by laziness! When this point was reached, Featherstone told
the Colonel that he wished to return to England; and Colonel Lane, who,
happily for himself, was not lazy, set things in train, and procured for
Robert a passage to England in the service of a gentleman who was going
home.
"I wonder how little Jenny's going on," said our idle friend to himself,
as he drew near Bentley. "I might do worse than take little Jenny. I
only hope she hasn't taken up with that clod-hopper Fenton while I've
been away, for want of a better. I almost think I'll have her. Dolly
Campion's like to have more money, 'tis true; but it isn't so much more,
and she's got an ugly temper with it. I shouldn't like a wife with a
temper--I've a bit too much myself; and two fires make it rather hot in
a house. (Mr Featherstone did not trouble himself to wonder how far
Jenny, or any other woman, might like a husband with a temper.) Ay, I
think I'll take Jenny--all things considered. I might look about me a
bit first, though. There's no hurry."