Great was the lamentation1 among the cousins at Trent House, when it was found that Mrs Jane could stay only two days with them, instead of the two months upon which they had reckoned.
“I am the most to be pitied, Jane,” said one of the young ladies, whose name was Juliana Coningsby, “for I start for Lyme in a week hence, and I had hoped to win you to accompany me thither2. Now I know not what to do for a convoy3.”
“Well, I cannot go, Gillian,” was the answer, “yet may I help you at this pinch. Take you my man as your guard; I can contrive4 without him, since my good cousin, Mr Lascelles, is to return with me.”
A little friendly altercation5 followed, Mrs Juliana protesting that she could not dream of depriving her cousin of so needful a servant, and Mrs Jane assuring her that the pleasure of helping6 her out of a difficulty was more than compensation for so slight an inconvenience; but in the end it was agreed that Jackson should proceed with Mrs Juliana, returning to Bentley Hall when she should no longer require his services.
The party of eight, therefore, who had left Bentley, were reduced to four on their return, Mrs Jane and Mr Lascelles on one horse, Jenny and Mr Lascelles’ groom8 upon another.
They reached the Hall late on a Thursday evening, Mr Lascelles suggesting when they came to the lodge9 that Mrs Jane should sit and rest for a few minutes, while he rode up to the house to hear the latest news of Mr Lane’s health.
The woman who kept the lodge came out courtesying to meet them, and Jenny wondered why they did not ask her how the old gentleman was.
Mr Lascelles, however, had ridden hastily forward, and he soon returned with cheering news. Mr Lane had “got well over this brunt,” he said; and Mrs Jane professed10 herself much cheered and comforted to hear it.
In the hall, as they entered, was Millicent.
“Well, Millicent, I’m not murdered, you see!” cried Mrs Jane cheerily.
“Indeed, Mrs Jane, I’m glad to see it, in especial considering all the warnings we’ve had. Three times of a night hath old Cupid bayed the moon; and a magpie11 lighted on the tree beside my window only this morning; and last night I heard the death-watch, as plain as plain could be!”
“Oh, then, that’s for you, not me,” responded Mrs Jane quite cheerfully; “so look Jackson doth not murder you on his return, as he has left me unharmed.”
“Oh me! Mrs Jane, is the fellow coming back?”
Mrs Jane only laughed, and said, “Look out!”
Considering the chain of shocks and disappointments which Mrs Jane had suffered, Jenny was astonished to see how extremely bright and mirthful she was, and still more surprised to perceive that this light-heartedness appeared to infect the Colonel. It was not, however, shared by Mrs Lane.
“Well, Jane, child,” she said one morning to her daughter, “I am truly glad to see thee so light of heart, in especial after all the troubles and discomfitures thou hast gone through. ’Tis a blessing13 to have a hopeful nature.”
“Oh, I never trouble over past clouds when the sun shines again, madam,” said Mrs Jane cheerily.
“I marvel14 what we can make of your man, when he cometh back,” resumed Mrs Lane. “If you go not now again into Somerset, you will have no work for him to do.”
“Maybe, Madam, he shall not return hither,” answered her daughter.
“My cousin, Colonel Wyndham, had some notion he could find him a good place down yonder, and I thought you would judge it best to leave the matter to his discretion15.”
“Oh, very good,” assented16 Mrs Lane. “So much the better. I would not have the young man feel himself ill-used, when my Lord Wilmot spake so well of him.”
“There is no fear of that, I hope,” replied Mrs Jane.
“O Mrs Jane! I am so thankful to hear that creature may not come back, after all!” cried Millicent.
“Ay, Millicent, you may sleep at ease in your bed,” said Mrs Jane, looking amused. “But I marvel why you feared him thus. I found him a right decent fellow, I can assure you.”
“Then I can assure you solemnly, madam,” answered Millicent, with a look to match her words, “that is more than I did. Never can I forget the horrid17 moment when I thought that nasty black creature went about to take me by the hand. It made me feel creepy all over—faugh! I cannot find words to tell you!”
“Pray don’t trouble yourself,” calmly responded Mrs Jane. “I am going upstairs, so you need not give yourself the labour to look for them.”
Before many weeks were over, Colonel Lane came one evening into the drawing-room, to report a wonderful piece of good news.
“God be praised!” exclaimed his mother. “This is indeed good news.”
Farmer Lavender was almost as excited as his landlord, and declared that he would light a bonfire in the farm-yard, if he could be sure the stacks wouldn’t get alight.
“Nay, Joe, I wouldn’t,” said his prudent19 mother. “Thou can be as glad as thou wilt20, and the Parliament ’ll say nought21 to thee; but bonfires is bonfires, lad.”
Will Jackson did not come back to Bentley, and Mrs Jane remarked in a satisfied tone that she supposed Colonel Wyndham had found a place to suit him.
Millicent contemptuously observed to Jenny that she wondered how Colonel Wyndham, who was a gentleman born, could take any trouble about that creature Jackson.
“Well, and I do too, a bit,” said Jenny, “for I’m sure the Colonel did not seem over pleased when Will would have taken him by the hand as we was a-coming up to the house.”
“No, you don’t say!” ejaculated Millicent. “Did he really, now?—to the Colonel? Well, I’m sure, the world’s getting turned upside down.”
Millicent was considerably22 more of that opinion when a few months were over. Early one spring morning, before anyone was up, some slight but singular noises roused Mrs Jane from sleep, and calling Jenny, she desired her to look out of the window and see what was the matter.
Jenny’s shriek23, when she did so, brought her young mistress to the casement24 in a moment. Bentley Hall was surrounded by armed men—Parliamentary soldiers, standing25 still and stern—awaiting in complete silence the orders of their commander.
Mrs Jane went very white, but her self-command did not desert her.
“Never mind screaming, Jenny,” she said coolly. “That will do no good. They’ll not take you, child; and these Roundheads, whatever else they are, are decent men that harm not women and children. I must say so much for them. Come quick, and dress me, and I will go down to them.”
“Oh dear!” cried Jenny. “Madam, they’ll kill you!”
“Not they!” said the young lady. “I’m not afraid,—not of a man, at any rate. I don’t say I should have no fear of a ghost. Jenny, hast thou lost thy head? Here be two shoes—not a pair—thou hast given me; and what art thou holding out the pomade for? I don’t wash in pomade.”
Jenny, who was far more flurried and frightened than her mistress, confusedly apologised as she exchanged the pomade for the soap.
“But—Oh dear! madam, will they take you?” she asked.
“Maybe not, child,” said Mrs Jane, quite coolly. “Very like not. I guess ’tis rather my brother they want. We shall see all the sooner, Jenny, if thou makest no more blunders.”
Jenny, however, contrived26 to make several more, for she was almost too excited and terrified to know what she was doing. She put on Mrs Jane’s skirt wrong side out, offered her the left sleeve of her kirtle for the right arm, and generally behaved like a girl who was frightened out of her wits.
Mrs Jane, dressed at last, softly opened her door, and desired Jenny to follow.
“I will wake none else till I know what the matter is,” she said.
“Come after me, and I will speak with the Captain of these men from the little window in the hall.”
Jenny obeyed, feeling as if she were more dead than alive.
Mrs Jane quietly unfastened the little window, and said to a soldier who had taken up his position close beside it—“I would speak with your Captain.”
The Captain appeared in a moment.
“For what reason are you here?” asked the young lady.
“Madam, I hold a warrant to take the bodies of Thomas Lane, and John Lane his son, and I trust that none in this house shall impede27 me in the execution of my duty.”
“My brother!—and my father!” exclaimed Mrs Jane, under her breath.
“Sir, we shall not do that. But will you suffer me to say to you that my father is an old and infirm man, in weakly health, and I beg of you that you will be as merciful to his condition as your duty will allow.”
The Roundhead captain bowed.
“Be assured, madam,” he said respectfully, “that Mr Lane shall fare better for the beseechment of so good a daughter, and that I will do mine utmost to have him gently handled.”
“I thank you, sir,” replied Mrs Jane, as she closed the window.
Then, Jenny still following, a little less frightened, since the enemy seemed after all to be a man, and not a very bad man either.
Mrs Jane went upstairs and tapped at her brother’s door.
“Who’s there?” demanded the Colonel’s voice very sleepily.
“The reward of your deeds,” answered his sister, drily. “Make haste and busk thee, Jack7; thou art wanted to go to prison.”
“Very good!” responded the Colonel, to Jenny’s astonishment28. “Do you bear me company?”
“Nay; would I did, rather than our father.”
“Our father! Is he—?”
“Ay. God have mercy on us!” said Mrs Jane gravely.
“Amen!” came through the closed door.
“Jenny, go back to my chamber,” said her mistress. “I will come to thee anon. The hardest of my work lieth afore me yet.”
For two hours all was haste and tumult29 in Bentley Hall. Then, when the soldiers had departed, carrying their prisoners with them, a hush30 almost like that of death fell upon the house.
Mrs Lane had wept till she had no more tears to shed; her daughter did not weep, but she looked very white and sad.
“Now you mark my words!” said Millicent to Jenny; “’tis that Jackson has done it. He’s played the traitor31. Didn’t I always say he was a Roundhead! Depend upon it, he’s betrayed something the Colonel’s done in His Majesty’s service, and that’s why that wicked Parliament’s down on him. Robin32, he says the same. He never did like that scheming black creature, and no more did I.”
“Well, I don’t know! He seemed a decent sort o’ man, far as I could see, only that he wasn’t well-favoured,” said Jenny doubtfully.
“He was a snake in the grass!” said Millicent solemnly; “and you’ll find that out, Jenny Lavender.”
To the surprise of the whole family, and themselves most of all, the prisoners were released after only four months’ detention33. That was considered an exceedingly short business in 1652. Neither father nor son seemed any worse for their trial; the Roundheads, they said, had not treated them ill, and had even allowed sundry34 extra comforts to old Mr Lane.
So matters dropped back into their old train at Bentley Hall for about a month longer. Then, one August morning, Colonel Lane, who had ridden to Kidderminster, entered the parlour with an open letter in his hand. His face was grave almost to sternness, and when his sister saw it, an expression of alarm came into her eyes.
“A letter, Jane, from Penelope Wyndham,” he said, giving her the letter.
“Mrs Millicent and Mrs Jenny, I pray you give us leave.”
That was a civil way of saying, “Please to leave the room,” and of course it was at once obeyed. Evidently something of consequence was to be discussed.
“I do hope Mrs Jane will not go away again,” said Millicent.
“Well, I don’t know; I shouldn’t be sorry if she did,” answered Jenny.
“Very like not; you think you’d go withal. But I can tell you it is vastly dull for us left behind. There’s a bit of life when she is here.”
Jenny went up to Mrs Jane’s room, where she occupied herself by tacking35 clean white ruffles36 into some of her mistress’s gowns. She had not progressed far when that young lady came up, with a very disturbed face.
“Let those be,” she said, seeing how Jenny was employed. “Jenny, child, I am grieved to tell thee, but thou must needs return to thine own home.”
“Nothing, child, nothing; ’tis not that. I am going away myself.”
“And mustn’t I go with you?” asked Jenny, in a very disappointed tone.
“To France? We are going to France, child.”
Jenny felt in a whirl of astonishment. Going abroad in those days was looked on as a very serious matter, not to be undertaken except for some important reason, and requiring a great deal of deliberation. And here was Mrs Jane, after scarcely half-an-hour’s reflection, announcing that she was going to start at once for France.
Mrs Jane put her hand in her pocket.
“Here be thy wages, Jenny,” she said. “Twelve pound by the year we agreed on, and thou hast been with me scarce a year; howbeit, twelve pound let it be. And for the ill-conveniency I put thee to, to send thee away thus suddenly, thou shalt have another pound, and my flowered tabby gown. Thou wilt soon win another place if thou list to tarry in service, and my mother hath promised to commend thee heartily38 to any gentlewoman that would have thee.
Jenny felt as if she had considerable need to fret. Here were all her distinctions flying away from her at a minute’s notice. Instead of being Mrs Jenny, and sitting in the drawing-room at Bentley Hall, she would once more be plain Jenny Lavender in the farmhouse40 kitchen. It was true her freedom would return to her; but by this time she had become accustomed to the restraint, and did not mind it nearly so much. The tears overflowed41 and ran down.
“Come, come, child!” said Mrs Jane, giving her a gentle pat on the shoulder; “take not on thus, prithee. Thy life is yet before thee. Cheer up and play the woman! Ah, Jenny, maid, ’tis well for thee thou art not so high up as some I could name, and therefore shalt fall the lighter42. Now go, and pack up thy mails, and Robin shall take thee and them to the farm this evening.”
“Must I go to-day, madam?” exclaimed Jenny, more dismayed than ever.
“I go myself to-day, Jenny,” said Mrs Jane, gently but gravely. “The matter will brook43 no delay. Take thine heart to thee, and do as I bid thee: thou wert best be out of it all.”
Poor Jenny went slowly up to the garret to fetch her bags, which had been stowed there out of the way.
As she came down with them in her hands, she met Millicent.
“You’ve had warning, have you?” said Millicent, in a whisper. “There’s somewhat wrong, you take my word for it! You make haste and get away, and thank your stars you’ve a good home to go to. We’re all to go, every soul save two—old Master’s Diggory and me.”
“What, Mr Featherstone too?” exclaimed Jenny.
“Oh, he’s going with the Colonel to France. But Master and Madam, they set forth44 to-morrow, and Diggory and I go with them. Mark my words, there’s somewhat wrong! and if it goes much further, I shall just give my warning and be off. I’ve no notion of getting into trouble for other folks.”
“But whatever is it all about?” said Jenny.
“Well, if you want my thoughts on it,” whispered Millicent, in an important tone, “I believe it’s all ’long of that Jackson. You thought he was a decent sort of fellow, you know. But you’ve to learn yet, Jenny Lavender, as all isn’t gold as glitters.”
“I think I’m finding that out, Mrs Millicent,” sighed Jenny; “didn’t I think I was made for life no further back than yesterday? However, there’s no time to waste.”
She packed up her things, and made a hurried dinner; took leave of all in the house, not without tears; and then, mounting Bay Winchester behind Robin Featherstone, rode home in the cool of the evening.
“Farewell, sweetheart!” said Featherstone, gallantly45 kissing Jenny’s fingers. “I go to France, but I leave my heart in Staffordshire. Pray you, sweet Mrs Jenny, what shall I bring you for a fairing from the gay city of Paris? How soon we shall return the deer knows; but you will wait for your faithful Robin?” And Mr Featherstone laid his hand elegantly on his heart.
“Oh, you’ll forget all about me when you are over there taking your pleasure,” said Jenny, in a melancholy46 tone.
Mr Featherstone was only half through a fervent47 asseveration to the effect that such a catastrophe48 was a complete impossibility, when Farmer Lavender came out.
“What, Jenny I come to look at us?” said he. “Thou’rt as welcome, my lass, as flowers in May. But how’s this—bags and all? Thou’st never been turned away, child?”
“Not for nought ill, father,” said Jenny, almost crying with conflicting feelings; “but Mrs Jane, she’s going to France, and all’s that upset—” and Jenny sobbed49 too much to proceed.
Mr Featherstone came to the rescue, and explained matters.
“Humph!” said the farmer; “that’s it, is it? World’s upset, pretty nigh, seems to me. Well, folks can’t always help themselves—that’s true enough. Howbeit, thou’rt welcome home, Jenny! there’s always a place for thee here, if there’s none anywhere else. You’ll come in and take a snack, Mr Featherstone?”
Mr Featherstone declined with effusive50 thanks. He had not a moment to spare. He remounted Winchester, shook hands with the farmer, kissed his hand to Jenny, and rode away. And the question whether Jenny would wait for his return was left unanswered.
“I’m glad to see thee back, my lass,” said old Mrs Lavender. “Home’s the best place for young lasses. Maybe, too, thou’lt be safer at the farm than at the Hall. The times be troublous; and if more mischief’s like to overtake the Colonel, though I shall be sorry enough to see it, I shan’t be sorry to know thou art out of it. Art thou glad to come back or not, my lass?”
“I don’t know, Granny,” said Jenny.
Kate laughed. “Have you had your fling and come down, Jenny?” she asked; “or haven’t you had fling enough?—which is it?”
“I think it’s a bit of both,” said Jenny. “It’s grand to be at the Hall, and ride in the coach, and sit in the pew at church, and that; but I used to get dreadful tired by times, it seemed so dull. There’s a deal more fun here, and I’m freer like. But—”
Jenny left her “but” unfinished.
“Ay, there’s a many buts, I shouldn’t wonder,” said Kate, laughing. “Well, Jenny, you’ve seen somewhat of high life, and you’ve got it to talk about.”
Jenny felt very sad when she went to church on the following Sunday. The Hall pew was empty, and Jenny herself was once more a mere51 nobody in the corner of her father’s seat. There was no coach to ride in; and very humiliated52 she felt when Dorothy Campion gave her a smart blow on the back as she went down the churchyard.
“Well, Mrs. Jenny! so you’ve come down from your pedestal? Going to be very grand, weren’t you?—couldn’t see your old acquaintances last Sunday! But hey, presto53, all is changed, and my fine young madam come down to a farmhouse lass.
“How was it, Jenny? Did Mrs Jane catch you at the mirror, trying on her sky-coloured gown? or had her necklace slipped into your pocket by accident? Come, tell us all about it.”
“She gave me a gown, then,” said Jenny, with spirit; “and that’s more, I guess, than she ever did to you, Dolly Campion. And as for why I’m come home, it’s neither here nor there. Mrs Jane’s a-going to France, to be one of the Queen’s ladies, maybe, and that’s why; so you can take your change out o’ that.”
Miss Campion immediately proceeded to take her change out of it.
“Dear heart, Jenny, and why ever didn’t you go and be one of the Queen’s ladies, too?”
“Oh, she’s climbed up so high, queens isn’t good enough company for her,” suggested Abigail Walker, coming to Dolly’s help.
“Now, you two go your ways like tidy maids,” said the voice of Tom Fenton behind them; “and don’t make such a to-do of a Sabbath morning.
“Jenny, I’ll see you home if you give me leave.”
He spoke54 with a quiet dignity, which was not like the old Tom Fenton whom Jenny had known; and his manner was more that of a friend helping her to get rid of an annoyance55, than that of a suitor who grasped at an opportunity of pleading his cause.
“Room for Her Majesty’s Grace’s Highness and her servant the carpenter!”
The word lover, at that day, meant simply a person who loved you; where we say “lover,” they said “servant.”
At the farmhouse door Tom took his leave.
“No, I thank you, Jenny,” he said, when she asked him to come in; “I’m going on to Uncle Anthony’s to dinner. Good morning.”
And Jenny felt that some mysterious change in Tom had put a distance between him and her.
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1
lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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convoy
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| vt.护送，护卫，护航；n.护送；护送队 | |
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contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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altercation
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| n.争吵，争论 | |
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6
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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7
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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magpie
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| n.喜欢收藏物品的人，喜鹊，饶舌者 | |
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horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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impede
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，阻止 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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32
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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detention
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| n.滞留，停留；拘留，扣留；(教育)留下 | |
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sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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tacking
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| （帆船）抢风行驶，定位焊[铆]紧钉 | |
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ruffles
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| 褶裥花边( ruffle的名词复数 ) | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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42
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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43
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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44
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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effusive
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| adj.热情洋溢的；感情(过多)流露的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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presto
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| adv.急速地；n.急板乐段；adj.急板的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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derisive
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| adj.嘲弄的 | |
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