“jenny, my dear maid, thou wilt never fetch white meal out of a sack of sea-coal.” jenny tossed her head. it would have been a nice little brown head, if it had not been quite so fond of tossing itself. but jenny was just sixteen, and laboured under a delusion which besets young folks of that age—namely, that half the brains in the world had got into her head, and very few had been left in her grandmother’s.
“i don’t know what you mean, grandmother,” said jenny, as an accompaniment to that toss.
“o jenny, jenny! what a shocking thing of you to say, when you knew what your grandmother meant as well as you knew your name was jane lavender!”
“i rather think thou dost, my lass,” said old mrs lavender quietly.
“well, i suppose you mean to run down mr featherstone,” said jenny, pouting. “you’re always running him down. and there isn’t a bit of use in it—not with me. i like him, and i always shall. he’s such a gentleman, and always so soft-spoken. but i believe you like that clod-hopper tom fenton, ever so much better. i can’t abide him.”
“there’s a deal more of the feather than the stone about robin featherstone, lass. if he be a stone, he’s a rolling one. hasn’t he been in three places since he came here?”
“yes, because they didn’t use him right in none of ’em. wanted him to do things out of his place, and such like. why, at hampstead hall, they set him to chop wood.”
“well, why not?” asked mrs lavender, knitting away.
“because it wasn’t his place,” answered jenny, indignantly. “it made his hands all rough, and he’s that like a gentleman he couldn’t stand it.”
“tom fenton would have done it, i shouldn’t wonder.”
“as if it would have mattered to tom fenton, with his great red hands! they couldn’t be no rougher than they are, if he chopped wood while christmas. besides, it’s his trade—wood-chopping is. mr featherstone’s some’at better nor a carpenter.”
“they’re honest hands, if they are red, jenny.”
“and he’s a cast in his eyes.”
“scarcely. anyhow, he’s none in his heart.”
“and his nose turns up!”
“not as much as thine, jenny.”
“mine!” cried jenny, in angry amazement, “grandmother, what will you say next? my nose is as straight as—as the church tower.”
“maybe it is, in general, my lass. but just now thou art turning it up at poor tom.”
“‘poor tom,’ indeed!” said jenny, in a disgusted tone. “he’d best not come after me, or i’ll ‘poor tom’ him. i want none of him, i can tell you.”
“well, jenny, don’t lose thy temper over tom, or robin either. thou’rt like the most of maids—they’ll never heed the experience of old folks. if thou wilt not be ‘ruled by the rudder, thou must be ruled by the rock.’ ‘all is not gold that glitters,’ and i’m afeard thou shalt find it so, poor soul! but i can’t put wisdom into thee; i can only pray the lord to give it thee. be thy bags packed up?”
“ay,” said jenny, rather sulkily.
“and all ready to set forth?”
“there’s just a few little things to see to yet.”
“best go and see to them, then.”
mrs lavender knitted quietly on, and jenny shut the door with a little more of a slam than it quite needed, and ran up to her own room, where she slept with her elder sister.
“jenny, thy bags are not locked,” said her sister, as she came in.
“oh, let be, kate, do! grandmother’s been at me with a whole heap of her old saws, till i’m worn out. i wish nobody had ever spoke one of ’em.”
“what’s the matter?”
“oh, she’s at me about robin featherstone: wants me to give up keeping company with him, and all that. tom fenton’s her pattern man, and a pretty pattern he is. i wouldn’t look at him if there wasn’t another man in staffordshire. robin’s a gentleman, and tom’s a clown.”
“i don’t see how you are to give up robin, when you are going into the very house where he lives.”
“of course not. ’tis all rubbish! i wish old women would hold their tongues. i’m not going to bentley hall to sit mewed up in my mistress’ chamber, turning up the whites of my eyes, and singing psalms through my nose. i mean to lead a jolly life there, i can tell you, for all grandmother. it really is too bad of old folks, that can’t knock about and enjoy their lives, to pen up young maids like so many sheep. i shall never be young but once, and i want some pleasure in my life.”
“all right,” said kate lightly. “i scarce think they turn up the whites of their eyes at bentley hall. have your fling, jenny—only don’t go too far, look you.”
“i can take care of myself, thank you,” returned jenny scornfully. “lock that striped bag for me, kate, there’s a darling; there’s father calling downstairs.”
and jenny ran off, to cry softly in a high treble to kate, a minute afterwards—“supper!”
supper was spread in the large kitchen of the farmhouse. jenny’s father was a tenant farmer, his landlord being colonel lane, of bentley hall, and it was to be maid (or, as they said then, “lady’s woman”) to the colonel’s sister, that jenny was going to the hall. mrs jane was much younger than her brother, being only six years older than jenny herself. in the present day she would be called miss jane, but in 1651 only little girls were termed miss. jenny had always been rather a pet, both with mrs lane and her daughter; for she was a bright child, who learned easily, and could repeat the creed and the ten commandments as glibly as possible when she was only six years old. unhappily, lessons were apt to run out of jenny’s head as fast as they ran in, except when frequently demanded; but the creed and the commandments had to stay there, for every saturday night she was called on to repeat them to her grandmother, and every sunday afternoon she had to say them at the catechising in church. in jenny’s head, therefore, they remained; but down to jenny’s heart they never penetrated.
it was only now that mrs jane was setting up a maid for herself. hitherto she had been served by her mother’s woman; but now she was going on a visit to some relatives near bristol, and it was thought proper that she should have a woman of her own. and when the question was asked where the maid should be sought, mrs jane had said at once—“oh, let me have little jenny lavender!”
farmer lavender was not quite so ready to let jenny go as mrs jane was to ask it. bristol seemed to him a long way off, and, being a town, most likely a wicked place. those were days in which people made their wills before they took a journey of a hundred miles; and no wonder, when the roads were so bad that men had frequently to be hired to walk beside a gentleman’s carriage, and give it a push to either side, when it showed an inclination to topple over; or oxen sometimes were fetched, to pull the coach out of a deep quagmire of mud, from which only one half of it was visible. so farmer lavender shook his head, and said “he didn’t know, no, he didn’t, whether he’d let his little maid go.” but mrs jane was determined—and so was jenny; and between them they conquered the farmer, though his old mother was on the prudent side. this was friday, and mrs jane was to leave home on tuesday; and on saturday afternoon, robert featherstone, colonel lane’s valet, whom jenny thought such a gentleman, was to come for her and her luggage.
if a gentleman be a man who never does any useful thing that he can help, then mr robin featherstone was a perfect gentleman—much more so than his master, who was ready to put his hand to any work that wanted doing. mr featherstone thought far more of his elegant white hands than the colonel did of his, and oiled his chestnut locks at least three times as often. he liked the colonel’s service, because he had very little to do, and there were plenty of people in the house as idle and feather-pated as himself. colonel lane was in robin’s eyes a good master, though old mrs lavender thought him a bad one. that is, he allowed his servants to neglect their work with very little censure, and took no notice of their employments during their leisure hours. and satan was not a bit less busy in 1651 than he is in 1895, in finding mischief for idle hands to do. leisure time is to a man what he chooses to make it—either a great blessing or a great curse. and just then, for those who chose the last, the disturbed and unsettled state of the country offered particular opportunities.
the war between the king and the parliament was just over. charles the first had been beheaded at whitehall nearly two years before; and though his son, charles the second, was still in england, fighting to recover his father’s kingdom, it was pretty plainly to be seen that his struggle was a hopeless one. the great battle of worcester, which ended the long conflict, had been fought about three weeks before, and the young king had only just escaped with his life, through the bravery of his gallant troops, who made a desperate stand in the street, keeping the victors at bay while their commander fled to a place of concealment.
the cavaliers, as charles’s troops were called, had few virtues beyond their loyalty and courage. after their dispersion at worcester, they spread over the country in small parties, begging, stealing, or committing open ravages. many of the parliamentary troops—not all—were grave, sensible, god-fearing men, who were only concerned to do what they believed was right and righteous. much fewer of the cavaliers had any such aim, beyond their devotion to the monarchy, and their enthusiastic determination to uphold it. they were mostly gay, rollicking fellows, with little principle, and less steadfastness, who squandered their money on folly, if nothing worse; and then helped themselves to other people’s goods without any uneasiness of conscience.
colonel lane was a cavalier, and devoted to the king, and most of his tenants were cavaliers also. a few were roundheads—staunch adherents of the parliament; and a few more had no very strong convictions on either side, and while they chiefly preferred the monarchy, would have been content with any settlement which allowed them to live honest and peaceable lives. old mrs lavender belonged to this last class. if asked which side she was on, she would have said, “for the king”; but in her heart she had no enmity to either. her son was a warmer politician; jenny, being sixteen, was a much warmer still, and as robin featherstone, her hero, was a cavalier, so of course was she.
we have given the worthy farmer and his family a good while to sit down to supper, which that night included a kettle of furmety, a mermaid pie, and a taffaty tart. what were they? a very reasonable question, especially as to the mermaid pie, since mermaids are rather scarce articles in the market. well, a mermaid pie was made of pork and eels, and was terribly rich and indigestible; a taffaty tart was an apple-pie, seasoned with lemon-peel and fennel-seed; and the receipt for furmety—a very famous and favourite dish with our forefathers—i give as it stands in a curious little book, entitled, the compleat cook, printed in 1683.
“take a quart of cream, a quarter of a pound of french barley, the whitest you can get, and boyl it very tender in three or four several waters, and let it be cold; then put both together. put into it a blade of mace, a nutmeg cut in quarters, a race of ginger cut in four or five pieces, and so let it boyl a good while, still stirring, and season it with sugar to your taste; then take the yolks of four eggs, and beat them with a little cream, and stir them into it, and so let it boyl a little after the eggs are in: then have ready blanched and beaten twenty almonds (kept from oyling), with a little rosewater; then take a boulter strainer, and rub your almonds with a little of your furmety through the strainer, but set on the fire no more: and stir in a little salt, and a little sliced nutmeg, pickt out of the great pieces of it, and put it in a dish, and serve it.”
the farmhouse family consisted only of farmer lavender, his mother, and his two daughters, kate and jenny. but fifteen people sat down to supper: for the whole household, including the farmer’s men down to the little lad who scared the crows, all ate together in the big kitchen. mrs lavender sat at the head of the table, the farmer at the other end, with jenny on his right hand: for there was in the father’s heart a very warm place for his motherless jenny.
“all ready to set forth, my lass?” he said gently—perhaps a little sadly. “yes, father, all ready.”
“art thou glad to go, child?”
“i’d like well to see the world, father.”
“well, well! i mind the time when i’d ha’ been pleased enough to have thy chance, my lass. be a good girl, and forget not the good ways thy grandmother has learned thee, and then i cast no doubt thou’lt do well.”
jenny assented with apparent meekness, inwardly purposing to forget them as fast as she could. she ran into the garden when supper was over, to gather a nosegay, if possible, of the few flowers left at that time of year. she was just tucking a bit of southernwood into her bodice, when a voice on the other side of the hedge said softly,—
“jenny.”
“well, what do you want, tom fenton?” responded jenny, in a tone which was not calculated to make her visitor feel particularly welcome.
it was one of jenny’s standing grievances against tom, that he would call her by her name. robin featherstone called her plain “mrs jenny,” which pleased her vanity much better.
“you’re really going to-morrow, jenny?”
“of course i am,” said jenny.
“you’ll forget me, like as not,” said tom, earnestly hoping to be contradicted.
“of course i shall,” replied jenny flippantly.
“i wish you wouldn’t, jenny,” said tom, with a meek humility that should have disarmed jenny’s resentment, but only increased it. like many other foolish people, jenny was apt to mistake pert speeches for cleverness, and gentleness for want of manly spirit. “i wish you wouldn’t, jenny. there isn’t a soul as thinks as much of you as i do, not in all the country-side. nor there isn’t one as ’ll miss you like me.”
“i just wish you’d take up with somebody else, and give over plaguing me,” said jenny mercilessly. “there’s ruth merston, and dolly campion, and abigail—”
“i don’t want ne’er a one on ’em,” answered tom, in a rather hurt tone. “i’ve never thought, not a minute, o’ nobody but you, jenny, not since we was a little lad and lass together. i’ve always loved you, jenny. haven’t you ne’er a kind word for me afore we part? may be a long day ere we shall meet again.”
“i’m sure i hope it will,” said jenny, half vexed at tom’s pertinacity, and half amusing herself, for she thought it good fun to tease him.
“don’t you care the least bit for me, jenny, dear?”
“no, i don’t. why should i?”
“but you used, jenny, once. didn’t you, now? that day i brought you them blue ribbons you liked so well, you said—don’t you mind what you said, dear heart?”
“i said a deal o’ nonsense, i shouldn’t wonder. don’t be a goose, tom! you can’t think to bind a girl to what she says when you give her blue ribbons.”
“i’d be bound to what i said, ribbons or no ribbons,” said tom firmly. “but i see how it is—it’s that scented idiot, featherstone, has come betwixt you and me. o jenny, my dear love, don’t you listen to him! he’ll not be bound to a word he says the minute it’s not comfortable to keep it. he’ll just win your heart, jenny, and then throw you o’ one side like a withered flower, as soon as ever he sees a fresh one as suits him better. my dear maid—”
“i’m sure i’m mighty obliged to you, mr fenton!” said jenny, really angry now. “it’s right handsome of you to liken me to a withered flower. mr featherstone’s a gentleman in a many of his ways, and that’s more nor you are, and i wish you good evening.”
“jenny, my dear, don’t ’ee, now—”
but jenny was gone.
tom turned sorrowfully away. before he had taken two steps, he was arrested by a kindly voice.
“you made a mistake, there, tom,” it said. “but don’t you lose heart; it isn’t too bad to be got over.”
tom stopped at once, and went back to the hedge, whence that kindly voice had spoken.
“is that you, kate?” he said.
“ay,” answered the voice of jenny’s sister. kate was not a very wise girl, but she was less flighty and foolish than jenny; and she had a kind heart, which made her always wish to help anyone in trouble. “tom, don’t be in a taking; but you’ve made a mistake, as i said. you know not how to handle such a maid as jenny.”
“what should i have said, kate? i’m fair beat out of heart, and you’ll make me out of charity with myself if you tell me ’tis my own fault.”
“oh, not so ill as that, tom! but next time she bids you go and take up with somebody else, just tell her you mean to do so, and ‘there are as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it.’ that’s the way to tackle the likes of her; not to look struck into the dumps, and fetch sighs like a windmill.”
“but i don’t mean it, kate,” said tom, looking puzzled.
“oh, be not so peevish, tom! can’t you say so?”
“no,” answered tom, with sudden gravity; “i can’t, truly. i’ve alway looked for jenny to be my wife one day, ever since i was as high as those palings; but i’ll not win her by untruth. there’d be no blessing from the lord on that sort of work. i can’t, kate lavender.”
“well, i never did hear the like!” exclaimed kate. “you can’t think so much of jenny as i reckoned you did, if you stick at nought in that way.”
“i think more of jenny than of anyone else in the world, kate, and you know it,” said tom, with a dignity which kate could not help feeling. “but i think more yet of him that’s above the world. no, no! if ever i win jenny—and god grant i may i—i’ll win her righteously, not lyingly. i thank you for your good meaning, all the same.”
“good even to you both!” said an old man’s voice; and they turned to see the speaker coming down the lane. he was a venerable-looking man, clad in a long brown coat, girt to him by a band of rough leather; his long, silvery hair fell over his shoulders, and under his arm was a large, clasped book, in a leather cover which had seen much service.
“uncle anthony!” cried tom. “i knew not you were back. are you on your way up the hill? here, prithee, leave me carry your book. good even, kate, and i thank you!”
“good even!” said kate, with a nod to both; and tom tucked the big book under his own arm, and went forward with the traveller.
