Jenny: A Village Idyl

by M. A. Curtois

He was engaged to do harvest-work, but he knew that labour was impossible—he went out into the fields and wandered there for hours. When he returned home in the evening, he found that a message had preceded him—Mr James Robson had sent to ask Jenny why her son had not appeared; and had added, moreover, that the lad was getting ‘strange and idle,’ and that he wished the mother would ‘say a word’ to him. Jenny did say a word, she even said many words, with the cold severity that was her manner of greatest displeasure; and she ended by refusing to let Nat have his tea, telling him that she could not afford to give him meals for which he did not work. No doubt, it would have been better if she had avoided that childish punishment, but the sore weight of her own troubles lay upon her heart; and, moreover, it is not always easy for a mother to be certain whether to treat a lad of seventeen like a man or like a child. Nat found himself next morning too sick and depressed to eat; but he would not make any complaint, and went doggedly to his work—not relieved when he was told by his master before the other boys and men that a ‘moocher’ deserved a thrashing, and, if he were his son, would get it too. Mr James Robson intended to give a kindly warning, but a proud nature does not receive warnings well; and although Nat set to work with stubborn earnestness, his resolution only issued from pride and despair. He knew indeed that it would not be difficult to regain his credit as long as he continued to be the Squire’s favourite; but even that thought was a bitter consolation, which could not comfort him in his temporary disgrace. If he should ever fall from the favour of the Squire, he would not again hold up his head amongst his companions.

Poor Nat! If any artist had passed by the harvest-field he must have been struck by the sight of his youth and strength, of his well-formed arms with shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, and of the beauty of his flushed, sunburnt face. But this picture, so ready for an artist’s hand, was under conditions which might render it less desirable—though the mental torments under which the lad was writhing had not been able to work much outward ravage yet. For the first time Nat felt drawn to forbidden pleasures, to anything that would still the raging thirst of life—he longed to enter the lighted public-house, to sing and dance there, and drink away his fear and shame. His old pride restrained him, that pride of old respectability which is too often the only safe-guard left. He would wait till he saw if the Squire had any suspicion; after that it would not matter what became of him.

And then, on an autumn evening, as he went by the wall of the Farm, going down into the village after his work for the Squire, the little door in the wall opened suddenly before he reached it, and Tina Gillan came out, without seeing him. She was in black, except for a knot of red ribbons in her hat; she walked with uncertain steps as if she were quivering. In this strange, restless manner she went down the road; and, at some distance, Nat cautiously followed her.

It was a grey evening, and there was a stormy wind. About the streets lay straw fallen from the loads of corn; the dead leaves had been whirled into drifts, or lay scattered upon the path; the rising ground in the distance was dull with purple mist. A mournful time, as full of suggestions of trouble as the restless, black figure that went down the village street, that passed the old tree with its yellow, withering leaves, and pushed open with difficulty the heavy church-yard gate. Nat followed her—she went down the church-yard path, and turned through the open door into the church, into the dim church where she at length stood still, and in which his footstep at length became audible. In another instant she had turned round, and then turned upon him, with the wildest gestures, and with wild, flashing eyes.

‘Oh, have you come here to taunt me,’ cried Tina, ‘to repeat to me again what my brother’s letter tells, to remind me how clever you have all been in deceiving me, so that he has been able to disgrace and ruin us both? It was a fine scheme you concocted with my brother—you and your sister, the low, hateful, village hussy—but if it brings shame to us I can assure you that at any rate it will bring no good to you. If I had known more I need not have wished for the Squire’s letter, in order to try and discover what my brother would not tell me! Mr Lee will not forgive us, you need not think he will; you will not be able to squeeze money out of him!’

She put out her hands as if she would have torn him; and, as she did so, Nat seized her in his arms. He was so much excited that he did not know what he did ... he poured out protestations .... he grasped her arms with his hands. And, even at that instant, he became aware in his turn of a footstep—Alice Robson was standing in the dim church by his side.

A terrible moment! He felt blind and faint, he could not resist the escape of Tina from his grasp; with a blind movement he put out his hands, and leant on the font to keep himself on his feet. And as he leant against it, in darkness and bewilderment, he heard the voice of his old companion.

‘Oh what have you done, Nat, what will become of you? Mother came to fetch her hymn-book, she has heard and seen everything.’

No answer. The lad slowly raised himself from the font, and stood with his head bent, looking down upon the ground. For once, Alice was excited, and could not restrain herself, although he had not so much as looked at her. For, whatever the meaning of this intimacy might be, she could not imagine that it would bring aught but ruin to him.

‘Oh, if she was good and would do you good,’ cried Alice, ‘I wouldn’t say a word to you, I’d be glad as you was glad. It’s not so, it isn’t, she’s bad, she flatters you, she tries to persuade you as she cares for you. What’s this as she’s been telling you about a letter? you haven’t been doing any wrong to the Squire for her?’