“i marvel tom and jenny lavender doesn’t make it up,” said persis fenton, as she laid the white cloth for supper on her little table. “here’s jenny got a fine sensible young woman, with god’s grace in her heart (more than ever i looked for), and tom goes on living in that cottage all by his self, and never so much as casts an eye towards her—and that fond of her as he’d used to be, afore, too! tony, man, don’t you think it’s a bit queer?”
“i think,” said old anthony, looking up from his big bible, which he was reading by the fireside, “i think, persis, we’d best leave the lord to govern his own world. he hasn’t forgot that tom’s in it, i reckon, nor jenny neither.”
“well, no—but one’d like to help a bit,” said persis, lifting off the pan to dish up her green pudding, which was made of suet and bread-crumbs, marigolds and spinach, eggs and spice.
“folks as thinks they’re helping sometimes hinders,” replied anthony, quietly taking off his great horn spectacles, and putting them away in the case.
“tell you what, tony, i hate to see anything wasted,” resumed persis, after grace had been said. “if there’s only an end of thread over, i can’t abear to cast it away; i wind it on an old bobbin, thinking it’ll come in some time.”
“the lord never wastes nothing, wife,” was anthony’s answer. “see how he grows plants in void places, and clothes the very ruins with greenery. it’s always safe to trust him with a man’s life.”
“ay,” half assented persis, “but it do seem a waste like of them young things’ happiness.”
“where didst thou ever read in the word, persis, as happiness was the first thing for a man to look to? the lord’s glory comes first, and then usefulness to our fellows, a long way afore happiness. bless the lord, he do make it happy work for man to seek his glory—and that’s what tom doth. i’ll trust the lord to see to his happiness.”
just as the green puddings came out of the pan, tom fenton turned into the lane leading up to his own home, having been engaged in delivering a work-table that he had made for the vicar’s wife. it was a beautiful day at the end of october, very warm for the time of year, and the sun was near its setting. as tom came to a turn in the lane, he saw a short distance before him, up a bye-road which led past farmer lavender’s house, a solitary girlish figure, walking slowly, and now and then stopping to gather something from the bank. a slight quickening of his steps, and a turn into the bye-road, soon brought him up with the solitary walker.
“good even, jenny!”
“good even, tom!”
for some seconds they walked abreast without any further speech. then tom said—
“i’ve just been up to parson’s.”
“oh, have you?” replied jenny, a little nervously.
“their dorcas saith she’s heard as featherstone’s back.”
“is he so?” said jenny, in a still more constrained tone.
“didn’t like it in france, from what she heard.”
“very like not,” murmured jenny.
“he’s got a place with mr chadderton—the young gentleman who was married of late, and who’s coming to live at bentley hall; so you’re like to see a bit of him again.”
“i don’t want to see him,” said jenny suddenly. “i’d as lief he didn’t come nigh me.”
“you was used to like him middling well wasn’t you, jenny?”
before jenny could answer, the very person of whom they were speaking appeared at a turn of the lane, coming towards them.
“mrs jenny lavender, as i live!” said he. “now, this is luck! i was on my way to the farm—”
“with your back to it?” asked tom.
mr featherstone ignored both tom and the question.
“mrs jenny, since i had the delight of sunning myself in your fair eyes, i have had the high honour of beholding his most gracious majesty king charles, who was pleased to command me to deliver into your white hands a jewel which his majesty detached from his own hat. he—”
“me!” exclaimed jenny, in so astounded a tone as to remind featherstone that he was beginning his story at the wrong end.
“oh, of course you know not,” he said, a little put out, for his speech had been carefully studied, though he had forgotten the peroration, “that his majesty is will jackson. i mean, will jackson was his majesty. at least—”
“are you quite sure you know what you do mean, mr featherstone?” demanded tom. “sounds as if you’d got a bit mixed up, like. is it the king you’ve seen, or is’t will jackson?”
tom rather suspected that featherstone was not quite sober. but he was, though between annoyance and self-exaltation he was behaving rather oddly.
“look here!” he said angrily, holding out the diamond clasp. “was will jackson like to give me such as this for mrs jenny? i tell you, his majesty the king gave it me with his own hand.”
suddenly tom’s conscience spoke. “are you acting like a christian man, tom fenton?” it said. “have you any right to work featherstone up into a passion, however foolish he may have been? is that charitable? is it christ-like?”
“very good, mr featherstone,” said tom quietly.
“i ask your pardon, and i’ll relieve you of my company. good night—good night, jenny.”
jenny could have cried with disappointment. she was afraid that tom was vexed with her, and wholly unwilling to be left to the society of featherstone. as to the diamond buckle, she did not half believe the story. tom’s action, however, had its effect upon featherstone.
“don’t you believe me, mrs jenny?” he said more gently. “i doubt i’ve made a mess of my story, but ’tis really true. will jackson was the king himself in disguise, and he bade me bring that to you, and tell you that he entirely agreed with you that will was an ill-looking fellow.”
when jenny really understood the truth, she was overwhelmed. was it possible that she had actually told king charles to his face that she considered him ugly? of course she was pleased with the gift in itself, and with his kindly pardon of her impertinence.
“but, eh dear!” she said, turning round the clasp, which flashed and glistened as it was moved, “such as this isn’t fit for the likes of me!”
farmer lavender was exceedingly pleased to see the clasp and hear its story, and in his exultation gave featherstone a general invitation to “turn in and see them whenever he’d a mind.”
“why, jenny!” cried kate, “you’ll have to hand that down to your grandchildren!”
jenny only smiled faintly as she went upstairs. she liked the clasp, and she liked the gracious feeling which had sent it; but what really occupied her more than either was a distressed fear that she had offended tom fenton. he never came to the farm now. the only hope she had of seeing him lay in an accidental meeting.
sunday came, and jenny dressed herself in the flowered tabby, tying her tippet this time with blue ribbons. when she came into the kitchen ready to go to church, her sister’s eyes scanned her rather curiously. “why, jenny, where’s your clasp?”
“what clasp?” asked jenny innocently. her thoughts were elsewhere.
“what clasp!” repeated kate, with a burst of laughter. “why, the clasp king charles sent you, for sure. have you got so many diamond clasps you can’t tell which it is?”
“oh!—why, kate, i couldn’t put it on.”
“what for no? if a king sent me a diamond, i’d put it on, you take my word for it!—ay, and where it’d show too.”
“i’d rather not,” said jenny in a low voice. “not for church, anyhow.”
“going to save it for your wedding-day?” jenny felt very little inclined for jests; the rather since she was beginning to feel extremely doubtful if she would ever have any wedding-day at all. she felt instinctively that a jewel such as king charles’s clasp was not fit for her to wear. tom would not like to see it, she well knew; he detested anything which looked like ostentation. and, perhaps, christ would not like it too. would it not interfere with the wearing of that other ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, with which he desired his handmaidens to adorn themselves? jenny resolved that she would not put on the clasp.
“no, kate, i shouldn’t like to wear it,” she said quietly. “i’ve got it put by safe, and you can see it whenever you have a mind: but it’s best there.”
“thou’rt right, my lass,” said old mrs lavender.
“well, i shouldn’t like you to lose it, of course,” admitted kate.
jenny fancied, and with a heavy heart, that tom carefully avoided speaking to her in the churchyard. old anthony and persis had a kind word for her, but though tom went away in their company, carrying his aunt’s books, he never came up to speak with jenny. it distressed her the more because kate said afterwards:
“have you had words with tom fenton, jenny? i asked him if he’d a grudge against you, that he never spoke.”
“what did he say?” asked jenny quickly.
“he didn’t say neither yea nor nay,” answered kate, laughing.
the afternoon brought several young people, and there was, as usual, plenty of mirth and chatter. jenny felt utterly out of tune for it, and slipped out of the back door into the lane. she went slowly up, feeling very low-spirited, and wondering what god was going to do with her. when she came to the gate of the bean-field—the place where tom had overtaken her a few evenings before—she stopped, and resting her arms upon the gate, watched the sun sinking slowly to the west. thinking herself quite alone, she said aloud, sorrowfully—“oh dear! i wonder if i’ve never done anything but make mistakes all my life!”
“ay, we made one the other night, didn’t we?” said a voice behind her.
jenny kept her start to herself.
“yes, we did, tom,” she replied soberly.
“i’ve made a many afore now,” said tom gravely.
“not so many as me,” answered jenny, sorrowfully.
“tell me your biggest, jenny, and you shall hear mine.”
“there’s no doubt of that, tom. the biggest mistake ever i made was when i fancied god’s service was all gloom and dismalness.”
“right you are, jenny. that’s about the biggest anybody can make. but what was the second, now?”
“oh look, tom, those, lovely colours!” cried jenny, suddenly seized with a fervent admiration for the sunset. “them red streaks over the gold, and the purple away yonder—isn’t it beautiful?”
“it is, indeed. but that second mistake, jenny?”
“nay, i was to hear your biggest, you know,” said jenny slily.
“well, jenny, the biggest mistake ever i made, next after that biggest of all that you spoke of just now—was to fancy that i could forget jenny lavender, my old love.”
two hours afterwards, the door of old anthony’s cottage opened about an inch.
“uncle anthony, are you there?”
“ay, lad. come in, tom.”
“don’t want to come in. i only want to tell you that the lord’s given me back the greatest thing i ever gave up for him.”
old anthony understood in a moment.
“ay so, tom? i’m fain for thee. and thou’lt be glad all thy life long, my lad, that thou waited for the lord to give it thee, and didn’t snatch it like out of his hand. we’re oft like children, that willn’t wait till the fruit be ripe, but makes theirselves ill by eating it green. and when folks does that, there’s no great pleasure in the eating, and a deal of pain at after.”
“that’s true. well, good night, uncle anthony. i thought i’d just let you know.”
“i’m right glad to know it, my dear lad. good night, and god bless thee!”
it was not for nine years that the lanes came back to bentley hall. their lives would have been in danger had they done so at an earlier date. they came back with king charles—when oliver cromwell was dead, and his son richard had shown himself unfit to govern, and a season of general tumult and uncertainty had brought england into readiness to accept any firm hand upon the helm, and an inclination to look longingly to the son of her ancient kings, as the one above all others given by god to govern her. but she had made the terrible mistake of first driving him away into lands where he found little morality and less religion, and it was to her woeful hurt that he came back.
it was on a beautiful june evening that the lanes returned to bentley: and the old master of the hall only came back to die. colonel lane was looking much older, and his mother was now an infirm old woman. mrs jane, a blooming matron of thirty, came with her husband, sir clement fisher, of packington hall, warwickshire, a great friend of her brother, and like him an exile for the king.
charles did not forget the service done him by the lanes, nor leave it unrewarded, as he did that of some of his best friends. he settled on lady fisher an annuity of a thousand pounds, with half that sum to her brother; and he presented colonel lane with his portrait, and a handsome watch (a valuable article at that time), which he desired might descend in the family, being enjoyed for life by each eldest daughter of the owner of bentley hall. they are still preserved by the lane family.
a few days after the lanes returned, jenny fenton stood washing and singing in the back yard of the cottage. tom’s work-shed ran along one side of it, and there he was carefully fitting the back of a chair to its seat, while a younger tom, and a still more youthful joe, were as diligently building a magnificent sailing-vessel in the corner. a woman of middle age came up to the door, lifted her hand as if to knock, stepped back, and seemed uncertain how to act. a child of six years old, at that moment, ran round the cottage, and looked up in surprise at the stranger standing before the door.
“little maid, what is thy name?” said the stranger.
a little doubtful whether the stranger, who in her eyes was a very grand lady, was about to hear her say her catechism, the small child put her hands meekly together, and said—
“molly, please.”
“molly what?” pursued the stranger, with a smile.
“molly fenton, please.”
“that will do. where’s mother?”
“please, she’s a-washing at the back.”
“is that she that singeth?”
“yes, that’s her,” returned molly, carefully avoiding grammar.
the song came floating to them through the balmy june air.
“‘o god, my strength, and fortitude,
of force i must love thee!
thou art my castle and defence
in my necessity.’”
the strange lady sighed, much to molly’s perplexity; then she rapped at the door. it was opened by jenny, who stood with an inquiring look on her face, which asked the visitor plainly to say who she was.
“you don’t know me, then, jenny lavender?”
“no, ma— dear heart! is it mrs millicent?”
“it is millicent danbury, jenny. and i am millicent danbury still, though you are jenny fenton.”
“pray you, come within, mrs millicent,” said jenny cordially. “i’m right glad to see you. there’s been a many changes since we met—molly, dust that chair, quick, and bring it up for the gentlewoman.”
“ay,” said millicent, with another sigh, as she sat down in the heavy windsor chair which it required all molly’s strength to set for her; “there are many changes, jenny, very many, since you and i lived together at bentley hall.”
“not for the worser, are they?” replied jenny cheerfully.
“ah! i’m not so sure of that, jenny,” answered millicent.
“well, i’m nowise afeard of changes,” said jenny, in the same bright tone. “the lord means his people good by all the changes he sends. mrs millicent, won’t you tarry a while and sup your four-hours with us?”
the meal which our ancestors called “four-hours” answered to our tea; but tea had not yet been introduced into england, though it was very soon to be so. they drank, therefore, either milk, or weak home-brewed ale.
“with all my heart,” was the reply, “if i’m not in your way, jenny. you are washing, i see.”
“i’ve done for to-day, and tom and me’ll be as pleased as can be if you’ll take a bit with us, mrs millicent. molly, child, fetch forth the table-cloth, and get the salt-cellar, and then run and tell father.—she’s a handy little maid for her years,” added jenny, with motherly pride.
millicent smiled rather sadly. “you are a happy woman, jenny!” she said.
“bless the lord, so i am!” echoed jenny. “it’s the lord’s blessing makes folks happy.”
“say you so?—then maybe that is why i am not,” said millicent, rather bitterly. “i don’t know much of the lord.”
“that’s a trouble can be mended,” said jenny softly; “and you’ll be main glad when it is, take my word for it.”
“i don’t know how to set about it, jenny.”
“why, dear heart! how do you set about knowing anybody? go and see ’em, don’t you, and talk with ’em, and get ’em to do things for you? the good lord always keeps his door open, and turns away none as come.”
at that moment tom came in, with a hearty welcome to his guest. jenny, helped by molly, bustled about, setting the table, and cutting bread and butter, while tom drew the ale; and they had just sat down when a little rap came on the door.
“anybody at home here?” asked a bright voice. jenny knew it at once.
“o mrs jane!—i crave pardon, my lady!—pray you come in, and do us the honour to sit down in our house.”
“i’ll do you more honour than that,” said lady fisher comically, as she came forward. “i’ll eat that bread and butter, if you’ll give it me, for i have been a great way afoot, and i am as hungry as a hunter.”
“i pray you take a chair, madam, and do us so much pleasure,” said smiling jenny. “i have here in the oven a cake but just ready to come forth, made the princess elizabeth’s way, his majesty’s sister, and i shall be proud if your ladyship will taste it.”
“i’ll taste it vastly, if i get the chance,” said lady fisher, laughing, as jenny took her cake out of the oven.
the princess elizabeth was that young gentle girl who had died a prisoner at carisbrooke castle, a few years after her father’s murder, her cheek resting on the little bible which had been his last gift. her cake was a rich plum-cake, made with cream, eggs, and butter.
“did you get your other honour, jenny?” asked lady fisher, as she helped herself to the cake.
“madam?” asked jenny, in some doubt.
“why, the jewel his majesty sent you. i was something inclined to doubt featherstone might forget it.”
“oh yes, madam, i thank you for asking, i have it quite safe. it was a vast surprise to me, and most kind and gracious of his majesty.”
“well, now i think it was very ungracious in his majesty,” said lady fisher, laughing. “i am sure he ought to have sent it to millicent here, who reckoned him a roundhead and an assassin to boot, if he meant to show how forgiving he could be to his enemies.”
“oh!” cried millicent, clasping her hands, “shall i ever forget how the dear king took me by the hand? to think of having touched the hand of his sacred majesty—”
“hold, millicent! that’s a new story,” said lady fisher. “last time i heard you tell it, that horrid creature, will jackson, only offered to take you by the hand. has he got it done by now?”
millicent looked slightly confused, but speedily recovered herself.
“o madam, i think he touched me. i do think i had the honour of touching his gracious majesty’s little finger, i really do!”
“really do, by all means, if it makes you happier; i’ve no objection. jenny, i shall eat up all your cake. it is fit to be set before the queen. millicent, i wonder you can find in your heart to wash your hands.”
“oh, but i had washed them, madam, before i knew,” answered millicent regretfully.
“well, i hope you had,” answered lady fisher, “seeing there lay nine years betwixt. heigh ho! time runs away, and we with it. seems pity, doesn’t it!”
“depends on where we’re running to,” replied tom, who had entered unseen. “children that’s running home, when they know their father’s got a fine present for them, isn’t commonly feared of getting there too soon.”
“but how if folks don’t know, tom?” suggested jenny, and millicent’s eyes reflected her query.
“my dear,” answered tom humbly, “it’s not for the likes of me to speak afore such as her ladyship. but i know what my dear old uncle anthony was wont to say: ‘the only way to be certain you’re on the way home is to make sure that you are going to your father; and to do that you must go with him.’ and i doubt if he’d speak different, now that he’s got home.”
“ay, i suppose we would all like to have god go with us,” said lady fisher gravely.
“madam, saving your presence, uncle was used to say there’s a many would like vastly well to have god go with them, that isn’t half so ready to get up and go with god. david spake well when he said, ‘make thy way plain before my face.’ the lord’s way is the sure and safe way, and ’tis the only one that leads home.”
“i think, jenny, you are a happy woman,” said lady fisher, an hour later, as she took her leave. tom had gone back to his work-shed. “good night; god be with you.”
“i am that, madam, the lord be praised,” answered jenny. “but the lord is to be praised for it, for i’ve done nought all my life but make mistakes, until he took hold of me and put me right.”
