The Gold that Glitters Part 12

"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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d, my strength, and fort.i.tude, 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 b.u.t.ter, 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 b.u.t.ter, 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 b.u.t.ter.

"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 a.s.sa.s.sin 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--"