Jenny: A Village Idyl

by M. A. Curtois

‘Ah, scoundrel, hypocrite, I have let ye have your tongue that ye might have leave eno’ to convict yourself! So ye call it a foolish trifle to ’tice a young girl from her home, and then to desert her, and leave her to misery! Why, sir, I married when I didn’t want to marry, because the lass believed as I’d made love to her, and ye come and boast to my face of the girl as ye have ruined, and ask me what ye’re to do and where to go. By the Lord that looks down upon ye and such like vermin, I think that I’m able to tell ye where to go. Ye may go to the devil, sir, your most fit companion, and his home, which is surely the fittest place for ye!’

He spoke, and at the same instant he advanced upon his nephew, with clenched hands, a vein-swollen forehead, and eyes darting from his head; and, as if pressed back by force, though no hand was laid upon him, James Gillan found himself retreating from the room. Shattered, overwhelmed, as one suffocated by nightmare, he heard his uncle roar to the servants to bring him his hat and coat, and, with that vision of fury still pressing on behind him, he was forced from the front-door, and out into the streets. It was all a dream .... there before him lay the valley .... a heavy pall of darkness, with innumerable points of light .... the night-wind was rushing, his brain rushed in its company, he could not remember what he should have said or done. Oh! he could not go back, there was no use in confession, he could never redeem his reputation now!

Wild sensations tossed, surged in him, as he staggered along without knowing where he went, as if all that was evil in him had risen, overpowered him, and was holding carousal, and high festival. He would go down to Annie, the siren who had ruined him, and seize her in her beauty, and tear her limb from limb—he could have laughed and sung at the prospect of his vengeance, and felt inclined to rush or to dance along the streets. He would go down to the river—ah! to the river-side—and drink with some old companions before he went on to her; he would be merry, would be warm and bright enough before he started on his dark walk through the night. The streets were strange .... the red sky on his left hand, on which were the darkness, the innumerable points of light .... the few lamps at intervals on the other side of the way .... the black dog whom he pushed with his feet, and who started off into the road. He went down the hill .... he would get to the river-side, though his brain was whirling as in delirium ... he could see Annie, hear her, could grasp her with his hands, although he was certain that she was miles away. He went always onwards .... no one saw him in the darkness .... the red lights were dancing, as if they laughed at him.

Is it possible that there are mysterious communications of which we in our ignorance are not aware, electric forces that can reach from distant places, and summon us by unconscious magnetism? Annie did not know, never realised what happened; but she remembered afterwards that she found herself forced to leave her bed, that she rose from where they had laid her, slipped by her sleeping watchers, and passed through the cottage, and out into the night. It seemed to her that her lover’s voice was calling, that his arms were stretching out to her from far away, that she was summoned to protect him from some immediate danger, from which only her presence could save him. She passed through the sleeping village, and crossed the railway lines, and found herself by the river, on the path leading to the town, with the lights of the city before her on the hill and in the valley, and the river flowing in pale course through the night. She could remember these things afterwards, but not what she had thought, except that her mind was delirious, feverish, that she was haunted by some agony that she would be too late, and kept crying out that the distance was long, and that she was too weak to run. And yet the lights became closer by degrees—she could see them burning beneath the bridge that crossed the water—could see the lamps at intervals on the other side of the river, and the quivering streams of light that ran down into the depths. At her side were the foundry-buildings .... and there, beneath the foundry arch, and the lamp that hung in it, was a black, strange swarm of men .... she could hear their voices, which came confusedly through the noise of the rush of the lock, and the silence of the night .... She drew close, closer, could hear the words they said .... that ‘he must have been drinking, by what some folk had seen’ .... could see them bend over something that lay upon the ground .... could distinguish the countenance of a villager, and by him her brother’s face. And then, all at once, as the crowd made way for her, her senses came back with a rush, and she understood it all .... the night-time, the staring eyes, her own loose dress, streaming hair, the amazement of the by-standers .... on the ground, her husband’s face .... For one instant she saw, and then everything forsook her, she could hear herself scream .... then her limbs gave way, and she fell.

And, as she fell, sinking, as it seemed, in unfathomable darkness, scarcely conscious of the arms put out for her support, she could hear a voice at her ear, speaking low and clearly, with a sound as of words that we hear even through our dreams. It seemed to be speaking of her, to be explaining who she was, to tear from her misery the last poor veil away. She heard the words; and then, as if nothing further could be borne, her consciousness deserted her and she knew no more. ‘This is Annie, Jenny Salter’s daughter, who lives by the Thackbusk!’

[CHAPTER XXXIV
A PARTING IN THE STREET]

THE words which rang in Annie’s ears were heard also by her brother, who stood almost unrecognised amidst the crowd of men, bewildered, gasping, scarcely knowing where he was, or that all was not some confusion of a dream. The terrible sight of the body taken from the river which had encountered him as soon as he reached the town, the more terrible recognition of its face, the realisation of a death that had nearly been his own—these things were overwhelming enough without the appearance of his sister, inexplicable as that was, unlooked for by any one, and yet affording, to other eyes besides his own, a clue that might serve to unravel a tragedy. He wished to help her, but he could not move his limbs, he appeared to be rooted to the ground on which he stood; but strong arms were round her, and the workmen who supported her seemed disposed to treat her with pity and tenderness. He saw her carried past him, pallid as a corpse, with the lamplight on her white face and streaming hair. He heard them say she was ‘only in a swounding; that in a little while she would be right again.’ And then, when he would have followed her he found that he could not stir; he could only watch, as if fascinated, all the preparations that surrounded one who would not wake and be ‘right.’ There were doctors present who had been summoned hastily; there were workmen eager to be relating all they knew; he could hear their voices, and the sound of women’s murmurs, and the tale that the better informed poured out upon the rest—this tale of the man who had been his sister’s lover, who was the brother of one whom he had loved. They said he had been drinking in a public-house like a madman, that he had risen suddenly and rushed out into the night, and that some, following him, had heard a sound in the water, and hastened, terrified, to the river’s edge. The catastrophe might have been an accident—none could be sure that it was not—they could only say that in the darkness it had been impossible to discover him at first, and that, when he was found and dragged up from the river, the light on his face showed at once that he was dead. The doctors talked of some injury which his head had received, but the time he had been in the water was long enough to account for death—and Nat realised, with feelings which cannot be described, that another had gained the fate he had desired. For an instant he saw the dead form on a shutter, and then, in its turn, it was carried past him and away. And then, as the crowd of people hastened after it, he knew that Tina Gillan was standing by his side. He had felt her touch on his arm, and recognised it; and, as he turned his head, he saw her face.

She was strangely attired, in a black silk evening dress, with necklace and bracelets upon her neck and arms, and over these things a black cloak lined with fur, which hung loose except where it was fastened at her throat; whilst an old black hat had been flung upon her hair, which was elaborately arranged, and glistening with pins of golden filigree. It did not seem strange to Nat that he should find her at his side—he was too much bewildered to be surprised that night—nor, considering the sight on which she had been looking, could he be amazed at the expression of her face—her eyes wide and wild, her cheeks and forehead twitching, whilst her limbs shook so that she could scarcely keep upon her feet. She clung to his arm, and kept muttering to him to ‘take her away from the river, to take her away from it,’ and, himself in such a condition that he was scarcely able to obey her, he half clung to her, half supported her to the streets. At the bridge he stood still, but fresh restlessness seized on her, and her low voice began muttering in his ear again.

‘Take me away from the river. I cannot bear to see it. I am going mad. Take me away from it.’