Jenny: A Village Idyl

by M. A. Curtois

‘Then come up to me,’ she murmured.... ‘Come at eight o’clock, and I will give you work to do.... And do not talk to too many people about it, they gossip so in the village about everything.... I want to hear about your mother, and your family .... your sister, and everything else.... Here is my brother, I hear him, you must go.’ Her movement was so sudden that he retreated hastily; the door was closed upon him, and he found himself in the passage and alone.

Alone, confused, bewildered by the darkness, not knowing in his bewilderment what to do or what to think, with the voice of the stranger still within his ears, with her face and the lighted room before his eyes! Oh, what did it all mean, what had he been doing since he left his home? Scarcely conscious of his actions, he stumbled through the passage, and into the dark yard, and then into the road. Tired, hungry, and giddy, with his head confused, with the remembrance again of his mother’s anger, he stumbled along to the ledge where he had rested, and sat down on that, and vexed himself, and cried. But there was no good in crying alone there in the night, and he dragged himself to his feet, and wandered on.

His home was dark when he reached it, though the door was left unfastened, and there was a light in the room where his sister slept—he did not attempt to mount the stairs after he had entered, for he did not wish to see his mother again that night. When he had locked the door, and made sure that everything was secure, he laid himself down on the rug with his head upon a chair, his heavy head which sank down upon the cushions as if it would never be able to raise itself again. Yet, tired as he was, at first he could not sleep, and then his sleep was confused with a strange, broken dream—he thought he was wandering on some unknown path, and that he could not be certain where it would lead. And still, as he wandered, and felt that he was lost, he could hear in the room above his sister’s tread, pacing ceaselessly up and down with restless footsteps, which seemed a part of the confusion of his dream, until, as deeper slumber closed on his fatigue, both footsteps and dream were lost in the stillness of the night—the night-time which bears on its pinions so many wandering fancies of the wandering souls soothed for a while to rest. No lasting relief can it give, and yet to men’s fierce impatience that interval of rest may not be quite in vain.

[CHAPTER VI
THE NEXT MORNING]

NAT awoke the next morning, feeling sore and stiff, a feeling not uncommon with people who have spent their night on the floor; but, tired as he was, the habit induced by training made him wake with the sun as he was used to do. Even at that hour he was not the first awake, although there was no one else present in the room—a fire had been lighted, a white cloth had been laid, and his solitary breakfast was spread daintily. His mother’s hands must have been there at work, although she would not stay in the room to speak to him; but to such silent displeasure he had been long accustomed, and neither that nor the tender care astonished him. Himself so proud and reserved that it would have been difficult for him to meet her after all that had passed the night before, he was only relieved that he had not awaked when she was there, and determined to escape as soon as possible. So he made a hasty toilet with the assistance of a pail, and swallowed quickly the breakfast so carefully prepared; and, then, seizing upon his can and bag of tools, he hastened out into the cool, fresh morning air. By the evening she might choose to forget that she had been vexed, and at any rate the evening was hours away. For it is the privilege of a man to go out into the sunlight, and forget in his daily work the vexations of his home.

Oh, beautiful sunrise! at which he glanced for a moment, leaning over the gate that led into the Thackbusk field, without much notion of seeking consolation in a sight so familiar as that of the rising sun. The whole of the eastern sky was a mass of countless ripples, such as in old pictures make a floor for angels’ feet, save where here and there they were broken by lines of vivid light, or contrasted against the horizon by one unbroken glow of red. Nat glanced at these things and thought that the day seemed stormy, and that there might possibly be rain before the night; and then, swinging his can of provisions up and down, he turned away from the sight to the village streets. He wanted to fall in with other working-lads, for he was in the state of mind that longs for company. The scene at the Manor Farm lingered still before his eyes, but he did not wish to think about it yet.

The village was grey in the early morning light, with a great stillness upon cottages and roads, though already blinds were drawn up, and doors open here and there, showing that the work of life was even now astir. And, every now and then, from one of these open doors would come out some man or boy in working-clothes, in a blue or white jacket, as the case might be, with his tools slung over his shoulder, and his can in his hand. The form of the worker would not long remain solitary, for he would hasten his footsteps to join some man or lad in front, or else, with a glance at the road behind, would loiter for some companion to come up. In spite of the loneliness of the morning hours it is a sociable business, going to work. But Nat, notwithstanding his late desire for company, was seized with another mood, and preferred to be alone. He was able for some while to be solitary, but as he passed the red chapel a hand laid hold of him.

‘Hallo, boy, you’re early to-day,’ so spoke his companion’s voice; ‘I must walk by thy side a bit, for I have to speak to thee.’

It was a young fellow who spoke, a lad who might have been twenty, dressed like all the rest in the street in workman’s clothes, but without any dinner-can or bag of tools, in spite of his blue jacket and his corduroys. He had a face that was intelligent and quick, with dark, bright eyes, over one of which was a scar, and a figure that appeared upright and lithe, although so lean that it gave the impression of having no flesh to spare. The grasp of his hand upon the shoulder of the boy was not one from which it would have been easy to escape, and Nat, who knew him, did not cherish any such intention, although not altogether pleased at the enforced companionship. It appeared, however, that he was not to be let go, so he resigned himself with as good a grace as he had.