“How do, Robin?” asked the merry monarch, who heartily enjoyed a little affair of this sort. “Nay, look not so scared, man—I am not about to cut off thine head.”
Featherstone contrived to mumble out something in which “forgive” was the only word audible.
“Forgive thee! what for?” said King Charles. “For that thou knewest me not, and tookest me for a Roundhead? Why, man, it was just then the finest service thou couldst have done me. I have nought to forgive thee for save a glass of the best ale ever I drank, that thou drewest for me at breakfast on the morrow of my departing. Here, some of you”—His Majesty plunged both hands in turn into his pockets, and, as usual, found them empty. “What a plague is this money! Can none of you lend me a few louis?”
The pockets of the suite proved to be almost as bare as those of the King. The Duke of Hamilton managed to find a half-louis (which he well knew he should never see again); Queen Henrietta was applied to in her coach, but in vain, as she either had no money, or did not choose to produce it, well knowing her son’s extravagance and thoughtlessness. Colonel Lane had a sovereign, which he furnished. The King held them out to Featherstone.
“There!” he said, “keep somewhat for thyself, and give somewhat to the little dairy-maid that took my part, and would have had me knock thee down. Tell her she’ll make a brave soldier for my Guards, when all the men are killed. Divide it as thou wilt. Nay, but I must have a token for pretty Mrs Jenny.” His Majesty cast his eyes about, and they fell on his plumed hat. Without a minute’s consideration he loosened the diamond buckle. “Give her that,” said he, “and tell her the King heartily agrees with her that Will Jackson’s an ill-looking fellow.”
It was just like King Charles to give away a diamond buckle, when neither he nor his suite had money to pay for necessaries. Robin Featherstone stepped back into the crowd, where he was pretty well hustled and pushed about before he regained his horse; but he managed to keep fast hold of the money and the diamond clasp. He was rather troubled what to do with them. The jewel had so pointedly been intended for Jenny, that he could scarcely help dealing rightly in that instance; but the division of the money was not so clear. A man who was just and generous would have given the sovereign to Fortune, and have kept the half-louis (worth about 8 shillings 6 pence) for himself; but Feathers tone was not generous, and not particularly anxious to be just. The portion to be appropriated to Fortune dwindled in his thoughts, until it reached half-a-crown, and there for very shame’s sake it stayed.
“And why not?” demanded Mr Featherstone of his conscience, when it made a feeble remonstrance. “Did not His Majesty say, ‘Divide it as thou list’? Pray who am I, that I am not to obey His Majesty?”
Had His Majesty’s order been a little less in accordance with his own inclinations, perhaps Mr Featherstone would not have found it so incumbent on him to obey it. It is astonishing how easy a virtue becomes when it runs alongside a man’s interest and choice. Featherstone had never learned self-denial; and that is a virtue nearly as hard to exercise without practice as it would be to play a tune on a musical instrument which the player had never handled before. In that wonderful allegory, the Holy War—which is less read than its companion, the Pilgrim’s Progress, but deserves it quite as much—Bunyan represents Self-Denial as a plain citizen of Mansoul, of whom Prince Immanuel made first a captain, and then a lord. But he would never have been selected for either honour, if he had not first done his unobtrusive duty as a quiet citizen. Self-denial and self-control are not commonly admired virtues just now. Yet he is a very poor man who has not these most valuable possessions.
Robin Featherstone stayed with the Colonel just as long as it suited himself, and until he had exhausted such pleasures as he could have in Paris without knowing a word of the French language, which he was too lazy to learn. What a vast amount of good, not to speak of pleasure, men lose by laziness! When this point was reached, Featherstone told the Colonel that he wished to return to England; and Colonel Lane, who, happily for himself, was not lazy, set things in train, and procured for Robert a passage to England in the service of a gentleman who was going home.
“I wonder how little Jenny’s going on,” said our idle friend to himself, as he drew near Bentley. “I might do worse than take little Jenny. I only hope she hasn’t taken up with that clod-hopper Fenton while I’ve been away, for want of a better. I almost think I’ll have her. Dolly Campion’s like to have more money, ’tis true; but it isn’t so much more, and she’s got an ugly temper with it. I shouldn’t like a wife with a temper—I’ve a bit too much myself; and two fires make it rather hot in a house. (Mr Featherstone did not trouble himself to wonder how far Jenny, or any other woman, might like a husband with a temper.) Ay, I think I’ll take Jenny—all things considered. I might look about me a bit first, though. There’s no hurry.”