Jenny: A Village Idyl

by M. A. Curtois

‘I—know him?—I’ve seen him oftens’—he muttered, brokenly; ‘I’m likely to see him sin’ I lodge in t’ house; but I’ve never not gone to speak no word to him; he goes upon his way, and I go on mine.’ He paused for a moment as if he had something on his mind whose utterance was almost more than he could compass.

‘Do ye know him, Annie?’ he asked in a low voice, with a terrible effort, and turning his face away—at the last moment afraid to read upon her features the answer to this question which he had come to her home to ask. It may be that the pain and difficulty with which the question came were like a revelation even to himself. But Annie allowed him no time for meditation, for with a sudden movement she sat upright and spoke.

‘What dost mean?’ she cried to him, with her eyes bright and sparkling, and her voice indescribably sharp in utterance, a tone and a manner that might have been sufficient to crush the courage of any questioner. But Tim was confident in his good intentions; and, moreover, he was not easily overwhelmed.

‘I mean, Annie,’ he replied, low and gravely,—with a gravity indeed that seemed beyond his years—‘I mean as there’s things as I don’t much like to tell, an’ yet as make me feel anxious over thee. It’s only a night or two agone, as Alice says, as she were stannin’ i’ t’ passage in t’ dark, an’ Jim Gillan come in fro’ an evenin’ in t’ town, a-staggerin’ an’ a-talkin’ as if he couldn’t mind hissel’.... An’ his words they was all upo’ “Jenny Salter’s daughter”—“he’d have Jenny Salter’s pretty girl,” he said—he called her “t’ handsomest lass in all t’ parish,” an’ said as he’d “get a sight o’ her agen.” I don’t like to think, Annie, as thy mother’s name an’ thee should be made free like that upon such lips as his’n—I would as he hadn’t got thee upon his mind, as thinks he’s a gentleman’s rights, a plague on him! Alice thinks he pays Molly to do what things he will, to sneak out wi’ letters an’ messages for him.’

‘Ye think I write to him,’ cried Annie in a frenzy, ‘ye think as I meet him an’ let him talk to me!—me as hasn’t spoke with him sin’ he came with his sister, an’ lodged at t’ Farm to be spied upon by all. What is it to me if he does think me pretty, I reckon as I can take care of mysel’? An’ if he do write to me at all, what’s that, so as I don’t take it on mysel’ to answer him? I tell thee, Tim Nicol, thee think’st a deal o’ thysel’; thee’dst best keep thy hands from off thy neighbour’s ways.’

Indeed it is certain that poor Tim had not prospered in either of the warnings which he had bestowed that morning, although it is possible that the passion with which he was now accused was not otherwise than consoling to his heart. It did enter his mind that he might ask Annie if the dangerous stranger had ever written to her, but he was afraid to rouse her wrath again, and thankful to take her word and be content. After a minute’s silence during which he seemed to ponder, he rose from his seat, and then took up his cap.

‘Well, good-day, Annie, I must be off,’ he said; ‘I’m thankful to hear what thou hast told to me—thou knowest it is a bad world, this of ours, and we’ve got to be careful and to mind our steps. Look after thyself, I can’t think thou art strong, thou used not to have a face as pale as that!’

Annie raised for an instant a softened countenance, whose dark eyes glistened as if tears were not far. Her passionate anger had been like her brother’s—the brother to whom she would not own resemblance—it would be inquiring too curiously to ask if it had not, like his, concealed a suppression of the truth. Tim did not go near her, or even take her hand, for out of his admiration for her sprang a certain reverence; he just gave for farewell a little, awkward nod, and put his blue cap on his head and turned away. Annie did not stay to look after him as he went; she turned her face to the pillow, and hid it there, and cried. Upstairs, poor Jenny, who had been settling drawers, with a delicate care that performed the task well, heard the door of the cottage shut, and at once determined that she would come down to her daughter’s side again. ‘I’m glad for her to have had a bit chat wi’ Tim, it’ll happen amuse her a bit, and do her good; I’m so dull always, and I’m not like to be better, whilst I’m still feelin’ the bruise Rob gave to me. But if only the childer can do well, an’ be happy, I’m sure it’s no matter what becomes o’ me.’

‘If only the childer’—ah! anxious mother’s longing, that stirred with her pulses as she went down the stairs, with a step as light, one might almost say as timid, as in the past days when she had been herself a girl. Annie heard the footsteps and raised herself from the pillow, removing with haste the trace of recent tears, for her nature, proud and impatient of sympathy, was accustomed to keep its sorrow to itself. Far away Nat was toiling wearily amongst wet vegetables, with resentful feelings against his mother and his home, and a conscious throbbing of excitement in his heart at the thought of an interview to which he had pledged himself. The guardian angel in blue cap and corduroys had delivered his warning to both lass and lad; but, that warning delivered, he could not stay for further guidance, but was compelled to turn back to the Manor Farm again.