Jenny: A Village Idyl

by M. A. Curtois

That was not a night to be forgotten by mother or by son, the short summer night spent in this new suffering; by Jenny sitting helplessly in her chair, whilst the dying candle before her sunk and flickered; by Nat in wanderings as hopeless and as helpless, and in vain enquiries which revealed to others their disgrace. He questioned such passers-by as could be found in the streets at midnight; he roused the inhabitants of one or two cottages; he ran through the night to the two nearest village-stations, and found his way by the river to the stations in the town. The hours of the night seemed short, and yet seemed crowded, too quickly over, and yet long to endlessness; its shifting scenes, and the faces of those he questioned, remained with him afterwards as bewildered dreams. By the grey morning-light that broke above the river, he found his way back again to his home at last, in some desperate hope that when he turned the handle of the door he would find that his sister also had returned. He entered to find everything as he had left it, the candle burnt out, the cottage dim and silent; his mother in her chair, pale, sleepless, motionless, and the bit of paper on the table in front of her. He was worn out; it was all too hard to bear; he sat down and cried.

By that morning light, breaking over fields and hedges, the men and boys of the village were starting for their work, whilst gardens and meadows were drenched with early dew, and tiny pink clouds were bright above the Fens. Already, as a rumour, the latest piece of news was passing from mouth to mouth as they paused to join each other; and as the white light grew clearer in the east, it began to spread amongst the village homes as well. One thing was clear, so the village-mothers said, it was not for good that the girl had gone like that; and those who had accused Mrs Salter and her children of pride were now at last certain that they would have their punishment. For there is some consolation attending every sorrow—to those at least who are not the sufferers.

[CHAPTER XIX
NAT AND THE SQUIRE]

THE village news, spreading fast, as has been said, was not long in reaching the mansion of the Squire, the grey house that was situated upon the hill, with trees around it and the church to the left of it. It came to this great house of the village with the milk, which was brought in the early morning by a little village boy, was discussed over breakfast in the servants’ hall, and was introduced into the study of the master with the newspaper. The Squire was interested, and even to a certain extent affected, although the details of village life did not often concern him much, for he was a recluse, with literary tastes, who preferred to seclude himself from the outside world. His servants were not only interested but also much excited, stirred to pity and even in some degree to triumph, for they had been jealous of their master’s handsome favourite, whose sister had become so unhappily distinguished now. The housekeeper declared that there must be something wrong with the family, and that for her part ‘she had never no opinion of the lad.’

Still human pity is produced by impulses that are happily often independent of our opinions, and when Nat appeared at eleven o’clock as usual, pale, with swollen eyelids, trying hard to hold up his head, he found himself received with a general compassion, which would not even disturb him by too many questions on the event. The housekeeper, indeed, took him apart into her room to ask if he had heard of his sister, and to express pity for his mother, but no one would have imagined from her manner how unfavourably she had spoken of him a little while before. Mrs Cranby was an old institution in the Squire’s household, a handsome old woman, with a manner of simple dignity, with a little red shawl on the shoulders of her gown, and with lilac ribbons in a most ample cap. It might have been well for the boy if he had accepted this opportunity of shewing gratitude for her kindness and of making friends with her, but he was sick and sore with shame and pride that morning, and only longed to be allowed to get to his work. He replied to her sympathy with a few, almost sulky words, and then went at once to the library of the Squire. For the last fortnight he had been accustomed to enter that room between eleven and twelve every morning; and on this occasion he found his master there, as usual, and alone.

Long afterwards, when many things had become clear, Nat learned to understand that the morning which succeeded his sister’s flight was a turning-point also for himself; but at the time his mind was entirely occupied with her, and could not consider other possibilities. There were such possibilities in greater measure than he knew; for on one side he had bound himself by a promise which was ill-considered, if not treacherous; and on the other the pity which had been awakened in his master was likely to lead to beneficial consequences. In order that we may understand his position more clearly it is necessary for us to know something of the Squire.

Mr Arundel-Mallory, more commonly known as Mr Mallory, and in Warton almost invariably mentioned as the Squire, was at that time a tall, though not upright gentleman of fifty, with hair that was perfectly white, though his eyebrows remained dark. His white hair perhaps made him appear older than he was, but he preserved the appearance of a remarkably handsome man, with great refinement of manner and of carriage, with quiet movements and a singularly gentle smile. His eyes had the abstraction of a dreamer, but his lips were mobile, and their expression could on occasions appear both hard and keen; they had subtle lines, and the lines of his face were subtle, with more wrinkles about them than might have been expected. In his youth Mr Mallory had been spoken of as wild, and had spent more money in Paris than could be accounted for; but after his marriage with a descendant of the French nobility he had come home to England to settle on his estate. Two heavy sorrows awaited him; his beautiful, young wife died in the year after their marriage; and that grief was succeeded by the loss of his son when he was thirteen years old. After this last trouble, Mr Mallory, who had long given up society, secluded himself with more determination than before; and devoted his time to literature, and the collection of old pictures, rarely rousing himself otherwise except to do some kindness to any one who could claim a connection with his wife or son. He was a man who was regarded with interest, but yet who was not loved; who was imposed upon by many, and feared and hated by a few; a man too clear-sighted to be altogether gentle, but too abstracted and indifferent to be clear-sighted every day. The Squire was a gentle landlord, as all the parish knew; but his resentment, when roused, could not be appeased again.

This was the master before whom Nat stood on the morning which succeeded the night of his sister’s disappearance; and who, as he entered, turned on him an anxious glance, which revealed more sympathy than he might have been expected to show. It had long been a matter of remark in Warton and its neighbourhood that the Squire had an especial favour for Jenny Salter’s son.

‘Ah! so you have come,’ said Mr Arundel-Mallory, gently; ‘I am glad to see you, for I have some errands for you to-day. You look tired; sit down. Whilst I write out your commissions you will be able to rest.’