“My new master!” cried John, growing red: “the longest day ever I live, I’ll never have a new master! All that I have in the world came from you, and I’ll never have another master. Sure you will let me follow you? I will be no trouble: though but little, may be I can do something still. Surely, madam—surely, sir—young ladies, you’ll speak for me—I shall be let to follow the fortunes of the family, and go along with you into banishment.”
“My good John,” said Mr. Percy, “since you desire to follow us into banishment, as you call it, you shall; and as long as we have any thing upon earth, you shall never want. You must stay here to-morrow, after we are gone, to give up possession.” (John could not stand this, but turned away to hide his face.) “When your business is done,” continued Mr. Percy, “you may set out and follow us as soon as you please.”
“I thank you, sir, kindly,” said John, with a most grateful bow, that took in all the family, “that’s new life to me.”
He said not a word more during the rest of the walk, except just as he passed near the beach where the ship was wrecked, he exclaimed, “There was the first beginning of all our misfortune: who would have thought that when we gave them shelter we should be turned out so soon ourselves? ‘twas that drunken rascal of a Dutch carpenter was the cause of all!”
The next morning the whole family set out in an open carriage, which had been made for the purpose of carrying as many of the young people as possible upon excursions of pleasure. It was a large sociable, which they used to call their caravan.
At the great gate of the park old John stopped the carriage, and leaning over to his master, whispered, “I beg your pardon, sir, but God bless you, and don’t drive through the village: if you please, take the back road; for I’ve just learned that he is on the great road, and as near hand as the turn at the school-house, and they say he wants to be driving in his coach and four through the village as you are all going out—now I wouldn’t for any thing he had that triumph over us.”
“Thank you, good John,” said Mr. Percy, “but such triumphs cannot mortify us.”
Poor John reluctantly opened the gate and let the carriage pass—they drove on—they cast a lingering look behind as they quitted the park—
—“Must I then leave thee, Paradise?”—
As they passed through the village the poor people came out of their houses to take leave of their excellent landlord; they flocked round the carriage, and hung upon it till it stopped, and then, with one voice, they poured forth praises, and blessings, and prayers for better days. Just at this moment Sir Robert Percy made his appearance. His equipage was splendid; his coachman drove his four fine horses down the street, the middle of which was cleared in an instant. The crowd gazed at the show as it passed—Sir Robert gave a signal to his coachman to drive slower, that he might longer enjoy the triumph—he put his head out of the coach window, but no one cried, “God bless him!” His insolence was obviously mortified as he passed the Percy family, for Mr. Percy bowed with an air of dignity and cheerfulness which seemed to say, “My fortune is yours—but I am still myself.” Some of the spectators clapped their hands, and some wept.