Jenny: A Village Idyl

by M. A. Curtois

‘Alice, tell me it all,’ he whispered, almost hoarsely. ‘I’m her friend .... ye can trust me .... I will not tell on her.’ And then, as he saw by her face that she had not understood him, he could contain himself no longer, and poured out all the rest. For at that moment he was overwhelmed, distracted, he knew not which way to turn, or what to do.

‘I’ve told her all I’ve said to ye, I did;’ he said, when he had repeated what he had told once to Jenny’s daughter; ‘an’ she would have it as she’d had nought to do wi’ him, though she didn’t deny as he might ha’ thought on her .... I don’ know what to think on it, I don’t .... It comes to me .... as he’s a gentleman .... as he may ha’ deceived her .... ha’ told her he would make her a lady, thinking no such a thing .... She mightn’t ha’ known his ways; poor child, poor child, she doesn’t know t’ world .... she’ll know it now .... An’ for me, I’m in a hunder minds, I don’t know what to do .... I’ve thought as I’d go to him, but then he’s away, they say .... An’ she’s ill, an’ has fever, an’ I’ve no right to ask her questions, for all as I don’t mean nought but what’s good to her .... God forgive me, I might feel even glad that she was shamed if it ’ud make her turn a thought down to me at last.’

‘Turn a thought down to me’—the words were sufficiently pathetic from the young man who had been proud and upright all his life—the hard life that might have been easily excused if it had fallen from neglect and ill-treatment into evil. And not less pathetic was the unwonted stir of passion that would not allow him to sit down, but forced him to pace about the room. Alice remained seated on the hearth, with her knitting on her lap; but, as he moved about the room, she followed him with her eyes. A woman is never so little inclined to reticence as when a man confides to her friendship his trouble and his love—the sense of security from misconstruction brings with it a feeling of freedom that is almost dangerous. Alice remained silent—it was her nature to be quiet—but the desire to comfort was rising in her heart.

So when Tim, tired of pacing, came to the hearth again, and sat down by her side, she put out her hand, and, without looking at him, laid it on his arm. It was but the softest movement, lightest touch, but the slightest touch is electric when it conveys sympathy. For one moment she waited, with her hand still on his arm; and then, without removing it, she spoke.

‘Ye must go to her, Tim,’ said Alice, very gently, and yet with decision in her gentleness; ‘ye must tell her as ye come to her as a friend .... that ye will help her if ye can .... It may be as she’ll confide in thee, she have known thee long. Wait only a bit while till her fever is better, and then go to her, an’ speak.’ With another quiet movement she removed her hand; and, taking up her strip of red knitting, began to work again.

‘Ye’re a good girl, Alice,’ cried Tim, in gratitude—a gratitude all the more intense because it had something in it of surprise—‘I never imagined, it wasn’t in my thoughts, as ye’d be so kind to me .... and to her. I see as ye love her, I didn’t know that before, I’d have spoken to ye of her before now, if I had. An’ she’s worthy of love, whate’er they say on her; we’ll not be the friends not to stand by her now.’

‘Oh, but it’s not on Annie I’m thinking,’ cried Alice, suddenly; ‘ye mustn’t think better on me nor I deserve .... I am sorry for her .... indeed, indeed I am .... but she’s not been my friend, and I can’t think most on her. It’s Nat .... he feels it so .... it’s so bad for him ....’ and her eyes filled with tears. Tim sat still, and looked at her with a sudden, great surprise—the discovery of an interest of which he had not been aware before; for, indeed, it is even possible that he may, unconsciously, have been led to the idea of another preference. The farmer’s wife had taken so much interest in him—he could not but be aware of the fact, although he had never asked himself to what cause that interest was due.

‘Is it Nat as ye be thinkin’ on?’ he asked, still with surprise, and even with a feeling of vexation which he could not have accounted for—‘t’ lad’s well eno’; I’ve heard no harm on him, a well-lookin’ lad as t’ Squire fancies to. I don’t think ye need make a trouble out of him, a good working boy as there isn’t a better in t’ parish—but, if ye think that a word might do him good, ye’ve been his friend long, an’ it’s not hard for ye to speak.’ He had echoed to her the advice she gave to him, but at the moment they were not aware of it. For some minutes they were both silent, whilst the sound of the distant music rose and fell, its vibrations distinct through the stillness of the summer night.

‘Oh, but it does make a differ, I know it does,’ cried Alice, passionately, putting up her hands to her ears; ‘she talks to him, and flatters him, an’ makes believe to care about him; there’s a change in him that has come sin’ he knew her. If it’s true, as ye say, that t’ brother wanted Annie—there’s a pair on ’em then, an’ they’ve both on em’ done harm. I wish as Mrs Salter’s children had never known ’em, or as they’d never come to our house to work their harm from here.’ Her unwonted trouble sent a quiver through her frame, and the black dog pressed against her, and looked at her with surprise; whilst Tim rose to his feet, without knowing that he did so, with a confused instinct of ending the scene or giving help. That might have been made into the subject for a picture—the big, lighted kitchen, the table still spread and covered, the two young companions in their attitudes of distress and earnestness, and the black dog with quivering ears and listed eyes. The distant echoes of Mrs Robson’s footsteps warned Tim that he must not delay to speak at once.

‘Look ye, Alice,’ he said hurriedly, ‘I’ll tell the best I can. And we’ll do our best, you an’ me. I don’t understand any part of this. Maybe the Lord’ll make it all clear some day—I can’t say. But you an’ me, we’ve got to help ’em both, if we can, Mrs Salter’s boy an’ girl; we’d do as much as that for t’ mother’s sake alone, t’ poor mother as has had such a deal of trouble all her days. Let’s take hands on that, Alice, and we’ll do our best .... and good-night.’