“Me!” exclaimed Jenny, in so astounded a tone as to remind Featherstone that he was beginning his story at the wrong end.
“Oh, of course you know not,” he said, a little put out, for his speech had been carefully studied, though he had forgotten the peroration, “that His Majesty is Will Jackson. I mean, Will Jackson was His Majesty. At least—”
“Are you quite sure you know what you do mean, Mr Featherstone?” demanded Tom. “Sounds as if you’d got a bit mixed up, like. Is it the King you’ve seen, or is’t Will Jackson?”
Tom rather suspected that Featherstone was not quite sober. But he was, though between annoyance and self-exaltation he was behaving rather oddly.
“Look here!” he said angrily, holding out the diamond clasp. “Was Will Jackson like to give me such as this for Mrs Jenny? I tell you, His Majesty the King gave it me with his own hand.”
Suddenly Tom’s conscience spoke. “Are you acting like a Christian man, Tom Fenton?” it said. “Have you any right to work Featherstone up into a passion, however foolish he may have been? Is that charitable? is it Christ-like?”
“Very good, Mr Featherstone,” said Tom quietly.
“I ask your pardon, and I’ll relieve you of my company. Good night—Good night, Jenny.”
Jenny could have cried with disappointment. She was afraid that Tom was vexed with her, and wholly unwilling to be left to the society of Featherstone. As to the diamond buckle, she did not half believe the story. Tom’s action, however, had its effect upon Featherstone.
“Don’t you believe me, Mrs Jenny?” he said more gently. “I doubt I’ve made a mess of my story, but ’tis really true. Will Jackson was the King himself in disguise, and he bade me bring that to you, and tell you that he entirely agreed with you that Will was an ill-looking fellow.”