Jenny: A Village Idyl

by M. A. Curtois

Their hands met for an instant, and then they separated, and, with as few words to others as possible, went upstairs to their rooms—in each heart alike a desire to give assistance that was as pure as human frailty and self-interest would permit. If Tim’s brave defence were due only to his love, if Alice’s sisterly anxiety were influenced by other feelings too, it is at any rate certain that the friendship of each was pure and steadfast, and likely to endure the strain that trouble brings. For trouble was coming, the friends were not deceived—the clouds which had always lowered over Jenny Salter’s quiet home were threatening to overwhelm it at length in utter ruin. The beginning of evil had seemed hard enough—but we are more impressed with the danger of the future than of the present when we stand in darkness before the storm has fallen.

[CHAPTER XXIV
NAT IN DESPAIR]

THE rest must follow—was already on its way, in as sure a course as that of the golden autumn days—and already with speculations concerning Jenny Salter’s daughter were mingled others with regard to her son. For the lad was altered, that could not be denied—the disgrace of his sister seemed to have wrought a change in him.

Indeed it would be difficult to express in sufficiently vivid words the alteration that was observed in Nat—a change all the more apparent from the strength and youth which continued persistently to belong to him. His hair was still crisp, with a tendency to curl, his colour still bright with heat and harvest-work; and beneath the broad straw hat, convenient for harvest-time, his face was as handsome as it had ever been. But he seemed careworn, was restless and abstracted, started when he was called, preferred to work alone—to his features had come that look of ceaseless trouble which does not often accompany the trouble of the young. The disgrace of his sister might account for this alteration, but there appeared to be much that was strange in it all the same. Poor Nat! he could not have told, even if he had asked himself, how much of his own trouble was caused by his sense of the continual suspicion under which his sister lay—the abiding home-grief, which was renewed every evening by the sight of her obstinate silence and his mother’s dumb despair. It was that sense of disgrace which aggravated the knowledge that he himself deserved disgrace; the double weight was a load intensified, a burden that had become unendurable. At night, when he awoke, he could hear himself muttering; but in the day-time his pride supported him, and his misery was dumb. For he had no friend to whom he could confide his trouble, and the atmosphere of his home-life had not been one of confidences.

Yet there was danger! he had felt it from the moment when he knew that the Squire was dissatisfied with the letter he had received from Mr Lee, that he had laid it on one side as a matter in need of explanation, and that he was determined to speak to Mr Lee on his return. The letter might have been opened, he could not be sure that it had not been; and in any case investigations were dangerous—for he was aware that the slightest suspicion on the part of his employer would be sufficient to alter the conduct of the Squire. Meanwhile the continued kindness with which Mr Mallory treated him supplied the burn of a perpetual reproach; and there were moments when he could have found it in his heart to throw himself at his master’s feet and confess his fault. He could not—the fault belonged also to another, and he could not betray another in the attempt to save himself.

So struggled his feelings during the course of harvest-work, whilst blue sky shone down upon the golden fields, and gleaners with children by their sides made up their bundles, and men and boys shouted above last loads of corn. It was only when harvest was over, and the days became short and grey, that he began to be torn with another pain. Miss Gillan had never seen him since a too-well-remembered evening; she had never again sent for him to the Farm. At first to poor Nat this seemed only natural; but, as time went on and there came no sign from her, the desire to see her became a craving pain.

Oh, he had made up his mind in the first rush of penitence that he would never go to the Farm again, that if she asked for him he would send a refusal, and that he would break resolutely from her influence. And now there was no need for so much determination, for it was evident that she did not care for him. And all his resolve became lost in the craving; ‘If he could only see her and speak to her again!’

Through a warm, cloudy morning in September when the Fens were grey, shadowy, and misty sunlight lay on the village streets, whilst far in the eastern sky was an ominous tinge of red—through these signs of approaching tempest Nat found his way once more to the Farm. He was trying to justify himself by many reasons—the poor dog, crawling back to his owner’s feet. Oh, he could not do without her, though he had tried to do so; it would be enough if he could see her face again.

The back-door was open, and he could hear the sound of music—she was in the old kitchen, and was playing dances there. Nat trembled to feel how fast his heart was beating, so that he could scarcely pronounce the words that asked if she were within. In another minute little Molly brought back her message—Miss Gillan was obliged to him, but she would not need him again. Nat did not answer, he felt that he could not answer; without looking back he turned away at once.