Jenny: A Village Idyl

by M. A. Curtois

There are few things more strange, if we come to think of it, than the peace which possesses us when we have decided to do wrong; it is to be accounted for, I suppose, by the cessation of conflict which appears to be a benefit at whatever cost it is obtained. Nat was a lad, and disturbed about a trifle, or at least by that which may appear such to us, but in those moments he experienced the calmness which has been felt by wrong-doers more guilty than himself. It was only when at length he drew near the village that he began to waver again, as we have seen, and to ask himself whether he would pursue the lower road, or would take the turn that led to the grey house of the Squire. He drew closer, closer; he saw in the golden evening the dark trees on the hill, the red chapel on his left .... he reached the turn .... for one instant he stood still. For one instant; and then, with steady footsteps he pursued his way through the lower village-street.

Down the street he went in the radiant, summer evening .... he could not think .... his heart could scarcely be stirred even by terror lest he should meet his master. No! the street was still, there were even no village-people; he reached the next turn, and began to mount the hill; he passed the old stones, and the grey tower of the church; he stood at length by the yard-door of the Farm. The yard-door was open, but the yard was deserted, the pigeons fluttered, the black dog wagged its tail; he went to the back-door, and opened it, and went in. Down the passage he went to the door of Tina’s sitting-room, and before he had knocked she opened it herself.

And in an instant, with a clutch upon his hand that made her little fingers seem hard as steel, she had drawn him, or almost dragged him into the room, and had closed the door upon them that they might be alone. In another instant she had forestalled his unwilling movement, and had taken the letter from the pocket of his coat. And then, with a fluttering laugh, and her finger on her lip, she ran to the further door and left the room.

If the fault of Nat deserved speedy retribution it must be owned that his punishment did not fail; his feelings were not to be envied during those long minutes which he spent alone. He could not imagine what had become of Tina, or what cause had induced her to leave the room at once; a feverish dread was on him that this whole business might turn out more serious than he had imagined it to be. As the minutes passed this fever became almost like insanity, and he felt every moment in more danger of a detection which would destroy for ever all hope he had in life. He longed to pursue Tina, and yet he dared not do so; he fell down at length, almost crying, upon a chair. But even as he found himself giving way in this unexpected manner, the further door opened, and Tina entered the room again.

She was pale, her eyes appeared to look into the distance, she did not seem like herself. Without saying a word, she held out the letter. Her eyes watched him as she did so. He seized it eagerly, without daring to look at it, and put it back into his pocket without a word. Then she seemed relieved, and said a few playful words, giving back to him a seal which she had once borrowed from him, and telling him that he must be a good boy and not get into a scrape, and that he must make haste with the letter to the Squire. And then, still holding his hand, she pressed it softly, and with a gentle movement pushed him from the room. Nat felt the soft touch still as, in confusion and bewilderment, he did not delay to hasten from the house. Even now it was possible for him to escape detection, and to deliver the letter safely into the keeping of the Squire. If that could be done he might yet be free from danger—that is to say, if the ‘downhill path’ will allow of ‘turning back.’

He was gone; the door of the house was closed behind him; and Tina was left alone in the ‘old kitchen,’ with her hands tightly clasped, and her face listening and intent. Some strange excitement was upon her, that was evident, it seemed like the excitement of fear. As soon as it was certain that her companion had left the house, she let herself fall down on a seat, and hid her face in her hands.

Oh! what had she gained by this foolish risk she had encountered, the most foolish and needless of the many risks of her life—what had she gained and what might she not have lost if her action should come to the knowledge of the Squire? She had been so insanely bent on the perusal of his letter in order that she might find out the mind of Mr Lee, so certain that her uncle was concocting some plan with her brother, the knowledge of which she was not to be allowed to share. For her brother had left the house in the early morning, only leaving a note to let her know that he was gone; and her suspicions, always ready where he was concerned, had at once connected his departure with his visit to Mr Lee. Her mere idle wish to see the outside of the letter (which had included some indefinite desire as well) had thus been turned into a craving that she could not control, and that she was determined to gratify at any risk. And yet when the moment came she might have been terrified, if only .... only .... it had not been all so quickly done.

For, oh! it was easy! The letter was badly fastened, and sealed as an afterthought with a little round of wax; it had not been difficult to take off the seal and to renew it when the letter was replaced. She had been excited ... it was that which frightened her, which made her uncertain of all that she had done, but she was quite sure that she had fastened the letter carefully and had impressed the wax with the plain seal Nat had lent to her. If that should be recognised; but it could not be recognised; and in any case she had returned the seal to him, not without some conscious impression, as she did so, that his danger would now be greater than her own. Bah! there was no danger, there could not be any danger; she had not wished to do any harm to him.

If only the letter had been worth the trouble! for it could not be said to be of worth in any sense—one single cold reference to the visit of her brother contained all the information that it gave. And yet she must really be feeling like a criminal because she had dared to look into its contents—and Tina leant on the table flushed, throbbing cheeks, and dark eyes whose brilliancy had gained fresh sparkles now. She would go to her room and see that all was safe, for absolutely she did not feel secure! And so, with a murmur of singing, for excitement made her sing, she left the old kitchen, and stole upstairs to her room.

All was quiet there, it was just the time of sunset, and beyond the window the Fens lay in crimson glow; the little table at which she had read the letter was in the centre of the room, and piled with fancy-work; the red sealing-wax had been carefully put away, the candle extinguished and returned to the dressing-table. All this she saw at a glance, with a sensation of relief; she advanced two steps .... then suddenly stood still. A packet like the enclosure of a letter lay before her on the ground.