Jenny: A Village Idyl

by M. A. Curtois

‘I did but hide by the stone-pit,’ muttered Nat, dismayed at the storms that were rushing on his head; ‘there wasn’t an eye of ’em all as saw me, but of course ye find fault wi’ me, ye always do.’

He pulled out a chair, and threw himself down upon it, an expression of sullen resistance on his face, thrusting out his legs in a most determined manner, and screwing his mouth as if he were whistling silently. The eyes of his mother and sister rested on him meanwhile, with the silent opposition that is most hard to bear.

‘I want some tea,’ muttered Nat, with his hands in his pockets, resolved to make the best of his position.

‘The things is locked up,’ his mother replied, ‘and I can’t be troubled to get ’em out for ye. I don’t care to give ye tea when ye do such tricks as them.’

‘All right, I’m not hungry,’ the boy said, with a gulp, as if he were exercising some control upon himself; he had seen, no doubt, the tears in his mother’s eyes, and did not wish to continue the dispute. But Jenny received the remark as an expression of indifference, and her unwonted anger could no longer be restrained.

‘I wish ye would go to bed,’ she cried out to him; ‘I can’t bear the look of ye, indeed I can’t.’ The boy got up in a sulky, slouching way, as if he were delaying the operation as long as possible; an expression which almost served to conceal the fact that, after all, he was doing as he was told. Unlike his sister, who did not practise obedience, Nat generally yielded, although defiantly; his mother, poor soul, was scarce conscious of the fact, she only observed the defiance, as mothers often do. Her daughter was always consistently imperious, but to her daughter she was accustomed to submit; it was the imperfect obedience of her son that, far more often, was able to rouse her wrath. To-night she was sore with anxiety, shame, and pain; and, in their own fashion, the gentle take revenge.

‘Ay, go off,’ she said; ‘that’ll be some comfort at least. If father was here he’d hasten thy steps for thee.’

‘Look here, mother,’ cried Nat, stopping short, and with a gasp, for his nature was as emotional as it was passionate, ‘ye’ve no call to say all these things to me, as if I’d been settin’ on to do ye harm..... What do it matter what t’ village says o’ father? I’m sure he merits the worst as they can say..... But I doubt if I’d stuck to him i’sted o’ ye he’d not send me hungered to bed as ye do now.’ His words were caught suddenly with a sob, and, turning hastily, he ran out of the room. The sound of the door he banged made echoes there, but the two women did not disturb them by their words.

Annie turned round upon her cushions, glad of the absence of her brother, because it left her able to shed a few tears unperceived; whilst her mother bent over the sewing in her hand, with trembling fingers that could scarce guide her thread. With the reaction of a timid and conscientious nature, she was now being seized with terror, uneasy about her boy, and sure that he might be ill if he went for so many hours without a meal. Although quite certain that he would reject any food, she longed to go to his room, and entreat him to come and eat; at the same time being not at all ready to forgive him, for her anger was enduring, although it was not strong. She would have stolen up the stairs to his bedside, but she dared not move with her daughter so near to her.

It is probable that her son would not have received her well; but the attempt at reconciliation might have produced some result; it might, at any rate, have averted an adventure that was to produce enduring consequences. For when poor Jenny, about an hour afterwards, went up to her room to put away her work, she found that the window of the room was open, that the boy’s bed was empty, and that Nat was gone.