Jenny: A Village Idyl

by M. A. Curtois

So these two were often together—young companions—whilst, without, the winter evenings were dark and indistinct, or the yard was full of the pallor of dense grey mist, which hid the light of the rising moon behind it. Within, all was bright and tending to cheerfulness, and Tim’s books would be piled on one of the wooden chairs; and, whilst he made mechanical drawings, or knit his brows in study, Alice’s strips of red knitting grew longer on her lap. It is so comfortable, in one’s times of trouble, to be near to another who has suffered like oneself, and to feel, through the silence of uninterrupted business, the presence of an unspoken sympathy. But it is the sheep in the fold who can thus draw near to each other; the wanderers are in darkness and alone.

Was it wrong then of Jenny that, coming in one evening to get some butter she had been buying from the Farm, she should stand still on the threshold of the kitchen, as one who has been struck with sudden bitterness? The kitchen looked so cosy with its gleaming pots and pans, the young companions appeared so comfortable, the black dog, who pricked up his ears at her entry, completed the picture so well as the guardian of the place. There was no guardian needed for the home from which she came, the home that had always been one of poverty, the home in which she must watch her daughter’s increasing misery, and feel daily that the distance was greater between her and her son. Other sons and daughters were prosperous, comfortable—there was Alice, well-dowered, well ‘thought on’ in the place; there was Tim who had escaped from early trials and hardships, to sit by her side and seem quite contented there; there was Miss Gillan, ‘all fine in silks an’ lace o’ Sundays,’ already supposed to be the heiress of her uncle in the town. At that moment, the feeling of the contrast was more than she could bear, oppressed as she was continually by an increasing sense of ruin—she hastily completed the errand for the sake of which she had come, resisted invitations to sit down, and went out into the night. It was better there, better in the cold and in the darkness, for darkness and solitude seemed companionship.

Poor Jenny! To those who are struggling with blind efforts in the night-time, it seems as if any revelation would be desirable. And, indeed, there was coming to this village mother some knowledge of which she had not thought or dreamed. But it is not always easy to recognise, as a light to help and save, the lightning-flash that reveals the precipice.

[CHAPTER XXVII
JENNY HEARS STRANGE WORDS IN THE DARKNESS]

ON the night succeeding that of her visit to the Farm Jenny was returning from Lindum after darkness had fallen. It was New Year’s Eve, a dark night, the moon had not risen; and the sky behind her lay in heavy streaks of grey above the line of brilliant lights on the top of Lindum Hill. Jenny was tired, for she had walked from the town; she had been to buy dainties for Annie, who became more ill every day; and the copper or two that would have been required for the railway journey made it too expensive. And yet she was almost exhausted; she had not been well herself, and the continual nursing of the last week had left her no time to rest.

It was to this reason Jenny ascribed the fact that, just as she drew near to the village, there came over her the most strange desire to sleep, a desire so burning and so overmastering that to struggle against it seemed impossible. She told herself, after some efforts which proved to be in vain, that she would only rest for a moment, for a moment close her eyes—it seemed excusable to snatch a brief repose, since so little rest was possible at home. But perhaps she was more worn out than she had supposed herself to be, for as she set down her basket she almost dropped by its side—she lay on the slope of the ditch, half-supported by the basket, which partially raised her right arm and her head. The position was pleasant, or it seemed so to her exhaustion; her eyelids dropped eagerly, her head sank, and she slept ....

How long she lay thus she had no means of knowing. She was roused by the sound of voices which seemed close to her ears. Half-startled, and yet too weak and stiff to move, she lifted herself against the basket on which she was leaning. Some time must have passed, for a thick mist had risen; and the moon, which had not been visible, was now high in the sky above the dark outlines of village roofs and chimneys, and the dim mass of the Squire’s trees on the hill. The voices were close to her, in the field beyond the ditch, and although they were almost in whispers she could hear every word. Exhausted, scarce conscious as she was, the sounds stole to her ears before she was even aware that she had heard them.

‘I tell you, Tina,’ one voice said to the other, ‘there is no need for all this excitement. I have done what you told me to do, although I hated to do it. I have seen her—I have seen Annie—Annie Salter, to-night.’

He had seen Annie—Annie Salter—it was her daughter’s name! A sudden, tingling thrill passed through Jenny as she lay. She attempted to rise, but she was not strong enough; she tried to speak, but her lips seemed to be held. She appeared to be in a dream, lying there in the darkness, with this strange voice near her that had pronounced her daughter’s name. And then, through the darkness, she heard the voice again, its sound more broken and agitated now.