Jenny: A Village Idyl

by M. A. Curtois

‘Well,’ she exclaimed, ‘not finished yet!’ The tradesman’s wife heard her, and heaved a placid sigh.

‘Ah!’ she breathed out softly, ‘and it never will be.’ Her manner was that of one who pronounces some final verdict.

‘An’ yet it must ha’ been many years abuilding,’ the stranger remarked, with renewed contempt, again leaning out of the window, with her eyes fixed upon the venerable towers above the town. Her remark was a challenge, or at least was taken as such, and the tradesman’s wife hastened to explain herself.

‘You see,’ she said, ‘it’s a fack as I have heerd, as all the cathedrals belong to the Roman Catholliks, an’ they keeps the woorkmen always at woork upon ’em, for fear lest the Catholliks should take ’em. For they ca’ant take ’em, as I’ve heerd, till they be done, so them as manages do contrive to keep ’em out!’

This extraordinary historical statement was received with a slight snort but with no incredulity, and the conversation fell once more into silence. The dark woman, however, was not to be daunted, and after a while burst into speech again.

‘I’m a-goin’ a good way,’ she said, ‘nigh to the sea, to a child o’ mine as has been ill; I don’t think they’ve done to her all they should ’a done, an’ I’m going to see to it or know the reason why!’ She did not make this remark to the passenger facing her, but threw it out for the benefit of all who heard, and it seemed to attract the attention of the young woman opposite, who was seated in the farther corner of the carriage. She raised her head, as if she had been herself addressed, and her words came as if against her will.

‘I’ve a child at home as is badly,’ she said, and then she sighed. Her words and manner were both very quiet, but there was something in them so simple and pathetic that they arrested the observation of the others, and for the moment all eyes were turned on her. The stranger honoured her with a bold and steady stare; the wife of the shopkeeper turned towards her with compassion; whilst even the foundry lad, to whom she seemed familiar, let his glance rest curiously upon her for a while. Indeed, it must be confessed with regard to her appearance, that these various eyes might have been worse employed.

She has been described as young, for her slight and youthful figure gave that impression to all who saw her first, but a closer inspection soon revealed the fact that she must have owned between thirty and forty years. Her face, too, was more worn than might have been expected, although it had preserved much of the delicate beauty of its outline—a beauty, however, so unobtrusive in character that it needed some close attention to observe it. She had the simple attire of a village workman’s wife, without any of the fineries in which the wives of workmen occasionally indulge, a gown of dark stuff, although it was summer time, a rusty black jacket, and a close-fitting bonnet of black straw, already old and limp. The lad could have told the others who she was, although he had not much acquaintance with her himself; and he might also have been able to give some explanation of the look of sadness upon her patient face. This was Jenny Salter, who lived in the village of Warton, who lived by the Thackbusk, and was Rob Salter’s wife.

Her appearance was too quiet to maintain the interest she had excited, the curiosity slackened, and the conversation dropped; save when the irrepressible stranger now and then made some remark on the fields or on the cows. Jenny shrank into her corner with her face turned to the window, and her mind occupied with tender yearning over her sick child at home; whilst the lad opposite, who had been disturbed by his looks at her, began turning over in his mind, with some compunction, the thought of a certain ‘rare game’ with which she was connected, and in which, in common with the other lads of the village, he intended to be engaged that night. His compunction did not extend to a renunciation of his purpose, but it made him a little uneasy all the same.

And now the train was beginning to slacken speed, and already could be seen the irregular lines of village roofs, the grey church-tower just peeping above the trees on the hill, and, beneath, the red chapel that had been lately built. With the timidity of a nervous nature, Jenny Salter rose to her feet before the train had stopped, and hastened to take her basket on her arm, that she might be found quite ready to descend. The movement recalled to her something that her dress kept concealed, a bruise on her shoulder that a man’s clenched hand had left.