Jenny: A Village Idyl

by M. A. Curtois

In another instant Mr Lee would have left Warton; but, although his visit must in any case have been fateful, it was not destined to be concluded, even now, without one last incident to give completeness to the rest. For his horse stumbled over some loose stones, and the servant dismounted as they were going down the hill, and began to examine the shoes of the animal—in the course of which action he observed a letter on the ground. His examination concluded, he stood up to address his master, who then saw that he held a letter in his hand.

‘Someone must have dropped this, sir, and left it here,’ he said, and held it up for his master’s eyes to see. There was only a short name inscribed on the envelope, but in an instant Mr Lee had recognised his nephew’s hand.

‘It’s for Miss Salter,’ said his servant, as he sat silent—‘that’s the daughter of Jenny Salter as lives by the Thackbusk field. And I believe, sir, though one wouldn’t credit it, that it is her as is coming along t’ road.’ And, raising his eyes from the letter that he held, Mr Lee saw the young girl advancing up the path.

It was a picture to be remembered, and that he did not forget—that sight of the hill in evening radiance, the trees of the Hall rising darkly to his right, and, far away, between branches that seemed bronze against the sky, the cathedral and town in a gloom of purple grey. Yet, fair though the sight was, it only formed a setting to the face of the young girl who paused near him. Mr Lee had never before beheld that face; it was impressed on his mind now, and was remembered afterwards.

On her part, Annie had merely gone out for a walk, impelled by her mother’s desire, and her own restlessness; and had only stood still on the path by the dog-cart, because she had felt, almost unconsciously, that the two men were about to speak to her. A faint colour rose in her face, which was pale from recent illness, and added to it another beauty. She was in her working dress of plain, grey cotton, with a broad-brimmed black hat to keep off the summer sun.

‘You must excuse me,’ said Mr Lee, as if he had already spoken to her; (he did not think it necessary this time to put his hand to his hat); ‘my servant has found a letter which has your name upon it, and we suppose that it must belong to you.’ He kept his eyes fixed unreservedly on her face; and watched whilst his servant gave the note to her. She put out her hand for it, in simple wonder, and her eyes fell upon the hand-writing as those of Mr Lee had done. And then, in an instant, it seemed as if some strong feeling moved her, for hot blood rose to her cheek, and the pupils of her eyes dilated. She let her hand close on the letter, and began to move away—then turned, and spoke.

‘I ought to thank you, sir,’ said Annie with simple dignity, in a voice which in spite of its country accent was low and sweet. ‘This is for me, though I was not expecting it; it must have been dropped as it was brought to me. I thank you kindly, sir. Good-evening;’ and she went on up the hill. The eyes of Mr Lee still rested on her figure, and continued to do so till it was out of sight. Then he signed to his servant to get up into the dog-cart, and shook the reins of his horse, and drove away.

Some hours later, when the evening light had faded and the crescent of the moon shone on the garden-paths—in the time of darkness and silence, of barred doors and closed windows, the lodgers at the Farm returned. Tim was waiting for them in the shadowed, moonlit yard, having undertaken that office in order that the yard-boy might go home—but he did not look on them with the eyes of favour, being displeased, like the rest of the household, at the lateness of their return. On their part, the lodgers appeared to be in the worst of tempers—they did not even speak to each other; and James Gillan got down without offering any assistance to his sister, and strode away into the darkness. Tina was more gracious; she hastened into the house where her bright fire was welcome even on an August night, and condescended to address to Mrs Robson some words of apology for their late arrival. It had not been her fault—her uncle had been away from home—and her brother had insisted on an excursion which she had not herself desired. Mrs Robson received her excuses willingly, being only anxious that her own tale should be told.

What the proud girl suffered during the course of that narration the farmer’s wife had not tact enough to imagine; and, indeed, since there was no light but firelight in the room, she could see only the outline of a face that was turned away from her. But when Tina at last moved, and the rising flames shone on her features, it became obvious that they were flushed as if with fury. Before, however, she had time to speak, the farmer’s wife had some other news to give—she was to tell Miss Gillan that Nat Salter had been waiting all the evening at the Farm. And, as if on her tumult of anger a new idea had fallen, Tina ordered with shining eyes that he should be summoned immediately.

What did she want with him, why should her tempestuous anger be calmed at once by the thought of this interview; what possible advantage could she hope to gain from one who was only a village-labourer? Something must have moved her—perhaps a secret hope of obtaining privately a clue to the conduct of her brother; or at any rate of learning more of her uncle, the Squire’s old acquaintance, from one who was reckoned a favourite of the Squire. These thoughts may have influenced her—for she loved such devices—but too possibly another feeling stirred as well, her insane habit of compelling admiration, reckless from whom or from what source it came. If she had been humiliated by her uncle—well, she would prove to herself that she could still triumph over men.