“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.”
