Read Ebook: The Gold that Glitters The Mistakes of Jenny Lavender by Holt Emily Sarah

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Ebook has 602 lines and 26032 words, and 13 pages

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.

"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.

HOW JENNY FARED THE FIRST EVENING.

"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?"

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