Jenny: A Village Idyl

by M. A. Curtois

She threw herself into a chair on the other side of the hearth, and with a tired movement clasped her hands above her head, an action which displayed the curves of her pretty arms, whose beauty did not require any ornament. Nat stole a glance at her, and then bent his head that he might go on industriously with his work—he liked to indulge himself with these fitful glances, and then feel the hot blood mounting in his face. A lad of seventeen, brought up with austerity, without much love for the amusements of his kind, and yet swayed by all the varying, confused emotions which accompany the perilous age when manhood dawns—it was scarcely possible that he should not be excited by evenings spent in such strange companionship. Where was the harm? he had told his mother that he was working for Miss Gillan, and she had not refused her permission or in any way hindered him—he was only confused because Miss Gillan was herself so strange, not like a lady, not like a village-girl, so that the natural awe which he would have experienced in her presence was mingled with a sensation of familiarity. He did not ask himself, as an older man might have done, for what reason she chose to unbend so much to him; he did not think of inquiring into the future to learn the result of such companionship. At the moment the wine of life is at our lips our future head-aches do not concern us much.

And yet, of late, as one half-waked from a dream, poor Nat had been possessed with an uneasy, haunted feeling, which scarcely, even now, amounted to compunction, but which still could render him dissatisfied. He was not indeed able to gauge the skill of the questions by which Tina drew from him the information she required; but it had now become often possible for him to wish that he had not said so much to her. For he had told her about his home and his mother, his sister’s beauty and the lovers it had won; about the Squire too, and his friendship with Mr Lee, and the correspondence Mr Lee maintained with him. It was on this last subject that Miss Gillan was chiefly interested; and Nat had some facility for giving her information, for of late he had been much employed by the Squire, and had continually brought him letters from the town. The questions of Miss Gillan were so simple, and appeared so natural, that for a long time the lad had replied to them carelessly; and it had not occurred to him that, as a servant, he had no right, even in small matters, to betray his master. That doubt, however, having once become aroused, would not allow him to be at peace again; for his mother had trained him to be fastidiously upright, and his present conduct was at variance with his training. He could tell himself indeed that he had done no harm, had revealed no secret that was worthy of the name; but still he was vexed, uneasy, unsatisfied, and at night tossed restlessly, wakeful and feverish. And now, this very evening, he had made fresh promises .... but then he would never make promises again....

He sat by the hearth, with his head bent over the patterns, the easy work which was all she required from him, in the spacious kitchen, warm, lighted, brilliant, which had not the dulness, the sadness of his home. For to-night he would be happy, he would enjoy himself, in Miss Tina’s room, and in her company; he would bask in his love of dreams and reveries, in the sense of expanding faculties and powers. For he was growing older; he was himself aware of it; in the past few weeks he had known new experiences.

‘Ah! ah! it is late,’ cried Tina, as she sprang from her seat with the lightness of movement that belonged to her. ‘Your mother will be angry; you must excuse yourself; you must say that I gave you a great deal of work to do. And you will remember what you must do to-morrow, you must just look in here as you come from the town .... I must have a sight of my sweet uncle’s hand-writing; for, although I am his niece, I have not often seen it. I won’t ever again ask you to do such a thing for me; I don’t want you to get into a scrape, you know .... only just this once .... because I have set my heart upon it .... because it is an occasion that will never come again. He is writing to the Squire on business, but he will speak of my brother’s visit, and I shall know by the look of the envelope the mood in which he wrote. Oh, Nat, you cannot tell what all this is to me; it is more than a foolish fear, it is my life.’

The ready tears sprang to her dark, shining eyes, which she veiled with one hand whilst she held out the other. He had never seen her in such a mood before, and the sight of her trouble touched him unspeakably. And then, as she took the hand which he scarcely dared to raise, she whispered that he was her friend, her only friend. The words lingered like music in his ears as he went out from the Farm into the dark village-streets.

The lights of the Farm were still before his eyes when he paused for an instant on the threshold of his home, listening for the voices of Annie and his mother, hoping that he would not be obliged to speak to them. With the remembrance of a pleasant evening, of Tina’s murmured words, he paused for an instant, then turned the handle, and went in. And then .... he stood still as his sister had done once, but with a more startled dismay, a deeper dread.

The cottage was silent, a solitary candle was burning; his mother sat by it with her head upon her hands, a scrap of writing before her on the table, her features pallid, her eyes fixed, scared, and dry. The scrap of writing gave sufficient information; his sister was gone, she had left the cottage that night—whilst he had been occupied with his enjoyment she had escaped in the darkness from her home.

[CHAPTER XVIII
A TERRIBLE NIGHT]

YES—she was gone—there could be no doubt about it—there was no room for hope, no chance of some mistake—the scrap of paper, with its single word ‘Good-bye,’ contained enough information to insure a terrible certainty. She had gone to her room that evening to lie down, as she said, whilst her mother was occupied with needlework in her own, and had stolen away so softly, silently, that her mother had not heard her footsteps on the stairs. To whom she was gone—if indeed it was to some person she had fled—in what direction, with what object, remained unknown; some hours must have passed after her flight had taken place before her mother discovered the paper she had left. Jenny kept on repeating in a pitiful, helpless tone that she had sewed downstairs for hour after hour, until she became ‘skeared’ that Annie did not appear, and went to her room, and found that she was gone. It was pitiful to see the condition of the mother, crushed and bewildered, without strength enough left for any other feeling than that Annie, her Annie, had really left her home. To Nat it was all a sudden, dreadful nightmare, the one candle in the cottage, the stillness of the night, the single word that his sister’s hand had left, the white face of his mother, and the overwhelming sense of shame. It could not be borne; he left his home and his mother, and with some muttered words about making inquiries, went out into the darkness.