Jenny: A Village Idyl

by M. A. Curtois

THE slanting light made the corn-fields into a radiance when Nat returned in the evening from the town. With the slow step of one who lingers and hesitates he went along the path which led from the station to the village. If any one had been close enough to observe his features a look of conflict would have been apparent on them—in fact the whole day had been a battle-field for a contest which was not decided even now. He did not know yet if he intended to turn towards the village, or to the path which led to the mansion of the Squire.

How shall we unravel from its entanglement the confusion of thoughts out of which a purpose grows? It is impossible for us to know all Nat felt that day; we may even add that he himself did not know. But in order that we may be able to understand him in some measure we must make an effort to look down into the feelings of a boy.

Nat had told himself then, as he walked along to the town, that his mother was ‘sore grieved now that Nan was gone;’ that his mother had ‘allays made so much o’ Nan.’ ‘She wouldn’t ’a cared if it had been me;’ murmured the sore feeling of an old jealousy; ‘she allays thought Annie a sight more good nor me.’ And then he told himself that his sister ‘needn’t talk; he wouldn’t ’a disgraced himself as she had done.’ It was hateful to think ‘how all t’ folk ’ud speak; they’ll make us the gossip o’ t’ village now.’ And still beneath these thoughts stirred the remembrance that he had not decided what he should do with the letters of the Squire.

Oh, there was no need for him to think about them; he would make up his mind as he walked back from the town. He would think of his sister—about the village people—‘them as Rantanned father, an’ is allays hard on us.’ He felt chafed, reckless, stung with the shame of that which had been sorrow the night before, ready to assure himself that it did not matter what he did, that even his mother did not care for him. These feelings may have been natural, we will not say they were not; but it is not in such feelings that virtue finds support.

So he came to Lindum, to the house of Mr Lee, and duly delivered the letter from the Squire; and was told that the master of the house was absent, and would not return until late in the afternoon. After this he performed some commissions at various shops, and had his mid-day meal at the coffee-palace in the High Street. On an ordinary occasion he would have enjoyed the fun of it all, and would especially have considered the meal a luxury, but to-day he could eat but little, and only just took up the newspaper—although a boy feels himself a man when he takes up a newspaper! When he paid for his dinner sixpence was returned to him which he carefully put into his pocket for the Squire. In this action also there was nothing unusual, but this time he felt himself to be proud of his honesty. He had a few more commissions to do, after which he wandered in the streets, and at last found his way once more to the house of Mr Lee. Tina had not been mistaken—after he had waited there for some while at the door the housekeeper put into his hands a letter for the Squire.

Nat felt his heart thump as he received it, and felt his face grow red, as if he had been suddenly detected in a theft, whilst his fingers closed hastily upon the envelope with the sensation that they were being burned. Wild thoughts passed through him as if he must get rid of it, must give it back to the servant to be sent on by the post; but he had not the courage or the skill to act upon them, and with the letter in his pocket went out into the streets. And then, for the first time, it rushed openly through his mind that he must keep his word to Miss Gillan even if he were disgraced for it.

With that feeling throbbing as if it were a pulse, and walking at his utmost speed, he speedily left the streets, and found himself once more by the edge of the river, in the radiant evening. Since he had left Mr Lee he had not stopped to think; he felt pursued, breathless, without even a wish to rest. But now, from very fatigue, he stood still by the river. And, as he paused, he remembered that the Squire had been kind to him.

Oh, Mr Mallory would never forgive him, never, if he were to find out that he had been disobeyed, or if he were once to discover that his messenger had been talking to other people about his private letters. He was so terrible when he was offended, Mr Mallory was. And he was himself the Squire’s favourite, all the servants said he was. What was Miss Gillan to him, or what was he to Miss Gillan? He was not called upon to disobey the Squire for her.

He walked on again. He felt calm, happy, his mind was at rest. And then, all at once, a reaction seized him once more.

Oh, oh, what a fool he was—the reaction seized him suddenly—to make such a fuss about a little thing, a small thing, a trifle, that no one would care about. Why, if Mr Mallory were to hear that he had been to the Manor Farm, there wouldn’t be anything so very bad in that .... he would never know .... that Nat had gone there to show his letter..... The last thought had a sting from which there was no escape, for Nat had been taught by his mother to be fastidiously honourable. Only, if she did see his letter what was the harm in that? it was only the outside of it that she wished to see—it was only an idea, a fancy that she had, she would not do anything to bring him into disgrace. ‘She likes me,’ thought Nat, and the blood rushed to his face; ‘and I like her too .... and I must do this for her.’ .... So up and down, literally up and down he paced, and the beating of his heart went up and down with him. And then, suddenly, with a quick, decided movement, he left off reflecting, and walked onwards steadily.