JENNY
A Village Idyl
BY
M. A. CURTOIS
_Author of ‘Elf-Knights,’ ‘Tracked,’ ‘My Best Pupil,’ &c._
‘Nothing but the Infinite Pity is sufficient for the infinite pathos of
human life.’
--John Inglesant.
_London_
EDEN, REMINGTON & CO., PUBLISHERS
HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
1890
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. IN THE TRAIN 1
II. IN THE VILLAGE 8
III. A RANTAN 17
IV. THE HOME THAT WAS RANTANNED 24
V. AN ADVENTURE IN THE NIGHT 31
VI. THE NEXT MORNING 46
VII. TIM 53
VIII. A MORNING CALL 60
IX. AT THE FARM 72
X. AN AFTERNOON VISITOR 84
XI. THE FARMER’S DAUGHTER 103
XII. A CLASS MEETING 111
XIII. THE RETURN OF THE FATHER, AND THE LAST OF THE RANTAN 123
XIV. IN SUMMER DAYS 130
XV. MR JAMES GILLAN MEETS HIS UNCLE 135
XVI. AN OMINOUS CONFLICT AND A FINAL RESOLVE 140
XVII. A PLEASANT EVENING 147
XVIII. A TERRIBLE NIGHT 154
XIX. NAT AND THE SQUIRE 157
XX. A BETRAYAL AND A FALL 165
XXI. LYING ON THE DOOR-STEP 178
XXII. IN THE HOME NEAR THE THACKBUSK 183
XXIII. ALICE AND TIM MAKE RESOLUTIONS 188
XXIV. NAT IN DESPAIR 202
XXV. TIM AND ANNIE 212
XXVI. IN WINTER NIGHTS 218
XXVII. JENNY HEARS STRANGE WORDS IN THE DARKNESS 223
XXVIII. A NIGHT OF DELIRIUM 229
XXIX. THE SQUIRE SENDS FOR NAT 236
XXX. BY THE RIVER IN THE NIGHT 245
XXXI. DRESSING FOR DINNER 252
XXXII. IN THE DRAWING-ROOM OF MR LEE 257
XXXIII. ANNIE SEES A CATASTROPHE 263
XXXIV. A PARTING IN THE STREET 272
XXXV. THE GENERAL CONFESSION AND THE CONCLUSION OF THE WHOLE 280
JENNY
CHAPTER I
IN THE TRAIN
THE chimes of the cathedral had just announced the hour of six when the
train left the station, and passing the tall chimneys which were
overshadowed by the cathedral towers steamed out into the country
beyond the town.
The July day was sinking into evening, an evening light that was soft
and mellow in spite of the line of stormcloud above the cathedral. It
was the first bright day that had been known for many weeks, and all
available hands had been turned to work upon the hay which, green and
damp still from recent experiences, was lying spread or in haycocks on
the ground. Here and there, on soil close to the river’s brink, the
masses of purple loosestrife made a glow of colour; or in some uncut
field where the grass was short and brown the dark red cows were
pasturing quietly; or now and then one, unconsciously picturesque,
would be standing on the bank of the river, a distinct picture there.
The train steamed onwards with its scanty freight of passengers,
between the lines of the river and the canal, in the midst of the quiet
fields and the mellow evening light.
The freight of passengers, as I have said, was scanty, for indeed not
many had left the town that evening--the foundrymen, even those who
lodged in villages, having, for the most part, tramped off to their
homes an hour before; whilst, as it was Thursday, and therefore not
market-day, no women with market-baskets were to be expected in the
train. Some few, however, were returning from their friends; and some
workmen had lingered for the advantage of the ‘ride;’ while there was
also, of course, a small proportion of those who were journeying to
some distant town, some of these being strangers much interested in the
cathedral, and others less interested inhabitants of the city. All
these different classes of people were represented, at any rate, in one
third-class railway carriage--a railway carriage in which we must
journey too.
A dark gipsy-looking woman, with fierce eyebrows and eyes, who had a
dark little girl by her side, seemed to be a stranger to the town, for
she sat by one of the windows and with excited gestures pointed out the
cathedral to the child in the corner opposite, whilst she was observed
placidly by a motherly tradesman’s wife who was conveying to her
daughter in a distant village some parcels of groceries from her
husband’s shop. In another corner, neatly dressed and quiet, was a
young woman who had the appearance of the wife of a village workman;
and opposite to her a lad in working-clothes, pale, grimy, and
over-tired, lounged at his ease. These passengers did not appear to
know each other, and conversation did not flow easily; with the
exception of one or two spasmodic efforts, which fell back rapidly into
silence. These had been made by the gipsy-looking woman, who seemed to
be one of those people who are disposed to talk.
The first cause of her remarks had been the sight of some scaffolding
which had been erected about one of the cathedral towers, and which
appeared to excite her very much, for she leant her head out of the
window that she might be able to observe it more closely. Then she drew
in her head again with a laugh that was short and dry, and an
expression that appeared to border on contempt.
‘_Well_,’ she exclaimed, ‘not finished yet!’ The tradesman’s wife heard
her, and heaved a placid sigh.
‘Ah!’ she breathed out softly, ‘_and it never will be._’ Her manner was
that of one who pronounces some final verdict.
‘An’ yet it must ha’ been many years abuilding,’ the stranger remarked,
with renewed contempt, again leaning out of the window, with her eyes
fixed upon the venerable towers above the town. Her remark was a
challenge, or at least was taken as such, and the tradesman’s wife
hastened to explain herself.
‘You see,’ she said, ‘it’s a fack as I have heerd, as all the
cathedrals belong to the Roman Catholliks, an’ they keeps the woorkmen
always at woork upon ’em, for fear lest the Catholliks should take ’em.
For they ca’ant take ’em, as I’ve heerd, till they be done, so them as
manages do contrive to keep ’em out!’
This extraordinary historical statement was received with a slight
snort but with no incredulity, and the conversation fell once more into
silence. The dark woman, however, was not to be daunted, and after a
while burst into speech again.
‘I’m a-goin’ a good way,’ she said, ‘nigh to the sea, to a child o’
mine as has been ill; I don’t think they’ve done to her all they should
’a done, an’ I’m going to see to it or know the reason why!’ She did
not make this remark to the passenger facing her, but threw it out for
the benefit of all who heard, and it seemed to attract the attention of
the young woman opposite, who was seated in the farther corner of the
carriage. She raised her head, as if she had been herself addressed,
and her words came as if against her will.
‘I’ve a child at home as is badly,’ she said, and then she sighed. Her
words and manner were both very quiet, but there was something in
them so simple and pathetic that they arrested the observation of the
others, and for the moment all eyes were turned on her. The stranger
honoured her with a bold and steady stare; the wife of the shopkeeper
turned towards her with compassion; whilst even the foundry lad, to
whom she seemed familiar, let his glance rest curiously upon her for a
while. Indeed, it must be confessed with regard to her appearance, that
these various eyes might have been worse employed.
She has been described as young, for her slight and youthful figure
gave that impression to all who saw her first, but a closer inspection
soon revealed the fact that she must have owned between thirty and
forty years. Her face, too, was more worn than might have been
expected, although it had preserved much of the delicate beauty of its
outline--a beauty, however, so unobtrusive in character that it needed
some close attention to observe it. She had the simple attire of a
village workman’s wife, without any of the fineries in which the wives
of workmen occasionally indulge, a gown of dark stuff, although it was
summer time, a rusty black jacket, and a close-fitting bonnet of black
straw, already old and limp. The lad could have told the others who she
was, although he had not much acquaintance with her himself; and he
might also have been able to give some explanation of the look of
sadness upon her patient face. This was Jenny Salter, who lived in the
village of Warton, who lived by the Thackbusk, and was Rob Salter’s
wife.
Her appearance was too quiet to maintain the interest she had excited,
the curiosity slackened, and the conversation dropped; save when the
irrepressible stranger now and then made some remark on the fields or
on the cows. Jenny shrank into her corner with her face turned to the
window, and her mind occupied with tender yearning over her sick child
at home; whilst the lad opposite, who had been disturbed by his looks
at her, began turning over in his mind, with some compunction, the
thought of a certain ‘rare game’ with which she was connected, and in
which, in common with the other lads of the village, he intended to be
engaged that night. His compunction did not extend to a renunciation of
his purpose, but it made him a little uneasy all the same.
And now the train was beginning to slacken speed, and already could be
seen the irregular lines of village roofs, the grey church-tower just
peeping above the trees on the hill, and, beneath, the red chapel that
had been lately built. With the timidity of a nervous nature, Jenny
Salter rose to her feet before the train had stopped, and hastened to
take her basket on her arm, that she might be found quite ready to
descend. The movement recalled to her something that her dress kept
concealed, a bruise on her shoulder that a man’s clenched hand had
left.
As she stepped on to the platform of the station, and looked wearily
up the river, aglow with evening light, the sight that she saw was one
that might have attracted a mind less preoccupied than her own. For the
line of storm-cloud was heavy above the cathedral, and beneath was the
glory of an intensely golden radiance, against which the hill that was
crowned with cathedral towers stood out as a shadow of deepest purple.
Jenny looked on these things, but seeing did not see them; she gave up
her ticket, and turned towards the village and her home.