Jenny: A Village Idyl

by M. A. Curtois

This then was the workman, lean, and lithe, and active, with an anxious brow, and ‘poor Annie’ on his lips, who parted from Nat in the grey light of the morning, and turned his footsteps towards the village streets. Some hours later, with a face that was still anxious, and yet with something like eagerness in his tread, he left the Farm where he had been breakfasting, and went down the hill towards Jenny Salter’s home.

[CHAPTER VIII
A MORNING CALL]

THAT home was in order although it was the morning, and daintily ready for the business of the day—an appearance that was always conspicuous wherever the hands of Jenny moved and worked. She had risen before the dawn to get her son’s breakfast ready, and she had not been idle since the dawn had passed; already all things were ‘straight,’ and she was able to get out her stitching and to sit down to it. If the echoes of the ‘Rantan’ of the night before were lingering stormily about the place, no signs of that hidden tempest could be seen in the room in which she and her daughter sat and worked. And yet it may be that the clamour of the night was sounding in the hearts of both women as they sewed.

Their room had a raftered ceiling, which was painted yellow, whilst paper, woodwork and fire-place were a sober, greyish green, the quaint colouring being contrasted round the window with dimity hangings, exquisitely white. In the corner was an old clock which reached from floor to ceiling, whose face of brass made a familiar brightness there, and the sober walls were everywhere ornamented with numbers of little photographs in frames. Annie sat in an easy chair upon one side of the hearth, and her mother was opposite, each with work on her knee, for the master here had no reason to complain of any want of industry in the women of his home. The echoes of the ‘Rantan’ were in those women’s ears, and, as they sat silent, their thoughts were turned to him.

‘When’ll father be comin’ back,’ Annie cried at last, and fiercely; ‘comin’ back in his shame to disgrace us all agen? I wish he’d come back to-night so as he might hear the sound o’ that clamour ringin’ in his ears. I’ll not stay here to be made a laughin’ stock, to hear the village rejoicin’ over us, I’ll go and wander away, for miles away, so as no one may see me, or know whose child I am.’ She had never before spoken in that manner of her father, but her mother had not the heart to rebuke her now.

‘I have tried to be good and to be respectable,’ Annie cried, with a feverish movement of her hands; ‘I’ve liked for to think as men should think well on us, and shouldn’t not breathe a word agen our name. I won’t try so hard now, I’ll have some fun mysel’; it isn’t no good whate’er I think or do; I’ll not shut mysel’ so close as I ha’ done; they may answer for it as drives one past one’s hope.’ She relapsed into silence, but her lips were working as if the thoughts she had spoken were wrestling in her mind. Ah! Annie, a dangerous thought and a dangerous resolve, however natural to despair as young as yours. Her mother heard the words, and in some degree felt the danger; but, herself sad at heart, she had no power to speak.

The sound of a footstep—Annie raised herself suddenly, whilst a brilliant flush crimsoned both her face and neck, and her breath began to come and go hastily, though her dark eyes sparkled as if with sudden hope. In another instant, as the young workman knocked and entered, she lay back wearily, with her face pale again. Her change of expression caught her mother’s passing notice, but poor Jenny was not learned in such signals. Ah! was there some hope, not confided to her mother, working in the girl’s mind in spite of her passionate despair?

It was Tim who entered, appearing taller than usual, as he descended the step into the low, yellow-raftered room, taking off his blue cap with civility, and advancing with more timidity than was usual with him. He was still in his blue working jacket and in his corduroys, but his dark hair had been brushed and he looked spruce and fresh, and there was a red rose in the buttonhole of his jacket, although he was not accustomed to wear a flower. A lean, lithe figure, he advanced into the room, his bright eyes seeming to take in the whole of it as he came, and with it the delicate mother with her sewing in her hand, and the bright-haired girl on whom his gaze lingered last.

‘I’ve come early to see thee, Annie,’ he said, (his honesty inducing him to speak first to her) ‘for I must get back to the town this afternoon, and I’d a bit word to say to thee ere I go.’ He turned for the first time to Jenny, who gave him for answer her rare, pretty smile, although with the reserve that belongs to North country folk, she did not put into words the welcome that she gave. Another mother would have been alert, suspicious, but in certain matters poor Jenny was not quick; she was ready to welcome the young fellow as a friend, without pausing to consider why he came. A certain reserve and caution in her nature, born of her hard lot and sad experience, and of the care with which she guarded both her treasures, made the list of her acquaintances very short. But Tim Nicol! there was no reason to be afraid of him, no one in the village was without a good word for Tim!