IN THE VILLAGE
THE village of Warton is situated on the river, about three miles from
the cathedral town of Lindum, and commands a good view of the cathedral
towers, and, from its highest ground, a wide outlook over the Fens. It
slopes upwards from the river to the summit of a little hill, on the
side of which are the church-tower, and the trees round the old grey
Hall; and, to the left, the irregular village street, with its
old-fashioned roofs of red tiles, or of thatch, the churchyard gates,
and the old village tree beneath which are some ancient stone steps,
once surmounted by a cross. Below the hill the road, which is at a
right angle to this principal street of the village, pursues on one
side its way to the town, at some distance from the triple lines of the
river, railway, and canal; and, on the other, winding to a greater
distance from them finds its way out into the great stretch of Fenland,
which is bordered on the far horizon by the blue line of the Wolds. It
is a quiet village, whose inhabitants are more artisan than
agricultural; for the town of Lindum, although three miles away, is
near enough to supply them with employment, to which the men and
lads tramp through the darkness of winter mornings, or the pale light
and mists of the earlier summer dawns.
Here, then, in this place had Jenny Salter lived, although she was not
by descent a native of the village, for her father, Nat Phillips, had
once lived close to London, and had only by accident drifted to the
north. He had happened to hear, through a friend, when he was out of
work, of some foundry employment that could be found in Lindum, and,
the result of his journey proving beyond his hopes, he had settled down
in the village near the town. The country people are habitually averse
to strangers; they looked with suspicion upon this unknown workman, and
would not admit him to any intimacy. It was only when years had proved
his harmlessness; and, more especially, after he had married a village
girl, that they condescended to be favourable, and could be heard to
say that they knew ‘no harm’ of him. By this time, however, the timid,
delicate Phillips had become obscured from another cause, he was hidden
from sight by the superior qualities of the lady who went by the name
of ‘Mrs Nat.’
In many villages there is some admirable woman who acts as a sort of
oracle to the rest, who is an authority on all village matters, and
rules supreme with a rod to which iron is soft. Mrs Phillips was one of
these superior creatures, and as such was recognised in all the
place; the daughters of the Rector did not command much more deference,
and were not to the same extent called upon to rule--it was enough for
them to teach in the Sunday School, to assist in prize-givings, and to
pour out tea at entertainments. Mrs Nat had brought some money to her
husband with herself; and, besides that, he earned good wages in the
town; she was able to appear in a silk gown on Sundays, and her income
was not limited by her charities. For it was one of the principles of
Mrs Nat not to give away anything to any cause whatever, and all sorts
of collectors had all sorts of stories of the results of making appeals
to her in her home. A hard, uneducated, vigorous, despotic woman, with
much local knowledge and unassailable ignorance, she ruled alike over
her husband and her neighbours, kept her home in order, and her
children neat, sold the chickens she reared in the town on market-days,
and asserted her authority on all occasions without dispute. Her
husband, meanwhile, submitted to her sway, left his children and his
wages entirely in her hands, read books and newspapers when she allowed
him to be quiet, was a competent workman, and a continual invalid. They
lived in a house in the lower street of the village, rather larger than
those which other workmen owned, with a view from the back-windows of
the canal and railway lines, with iron railings in front, and a brass
knocker on the door.
In this house had Jenny spent her early years, a shy, timid child,
continually found fault with by her mother for being slow, and
otherwise attracting little notice from anyone. She had inherited,
indeed, from her father the beauty of her face, but it was a quiet
beauty, not readily observed; she was a delicate creature, easily tired
and frightened, not likely to reign as a belle amongst the lads. The
other children of Mrs Nat were boys, bold, black-eyed urchins, who were
their mother’s pride, and she had not much affection for the only girl,
who was not in any particular like herself. Jenny crept silently about
the house, shrank away from scoldings into solitary corners, climbed up
on her father’s knee when her brothers were not near, admired her
mother, and felt herself dull and slow. At that time, as afterwards,
she was willing to accept the estimate that other people formed of her;
she early learned that conviction of unworthiness which is scarcely to
be unlearned in later life. A gentle creature, timid and patient, she
sang her songs low to herself, and was content.
It was not in the least to be expected that poor Jenny would have power
over her fate when her fate came in her way, and indeed her mother
assumed the complete control, and did not require her to have an
opinion for herself. Mrs Nat took a liking to the dark-eyed, handsome,
young fellow who, in those days, haunted the house persistently,
professing himself willing to leave the sea-coast where he had lived,
to settle in the village, and find work in the town. Mrs Nat found
him lively, and loved to joke with him; the father was secretly uneasy,
but dared not express his doubts; and Rob Salter himself had a fancy
for the welcome and the suppers, and the pretty child who was shy when
he looked at her. In those days they would often make excursions to the
sea, and Rob would be generous and pay for everyone; and Jenny loved
the tumbling waves, and the long, low line of sand-banks, and the bare,
flat fields that gleamed in the evening light. It was on one of those
evenings when he stood alone with her on the shore, and a pale light
made a mystery of the sea and sands, that he whispered to her, and it
was all arranged. The father and mother were merry as they travelled
back that night; it was well for them that they did not live to see the
rest.
For it was all settled, and there was a quiet wedding-day, and Jenny
returned after two days to a cottage of her own, and it was all so
wonderful that she could not imagine how she should ever get over the
wonder of it. And yet, after all, it was but a common-place experience,
and she settled down, by degrees, to her cottage-home, though the first
weeks of her new life were overshadowed by such grief as she had not
known before. For Nat Phillips came home with a fever from the town,
and his wife caught it from him as she nursed him that night, and
in the course of a few days both were dead, and Jenny followed
her parents to their grave. She was overwhelmed with grief and
bewilderment; she could not imagine herself without her mother’s rule;
and the villagers, who had more knowledge than she had of her husband,
shook their heads over the thought that the protection of her parents
was lost. Of this, however, they said nothing to the young wife; and,
perhaps, if they had done so, she would not have understood.
No, she did not understand, and although in that first year of
marriage, Rob left his young bride continually alone, although his
varied employments seemed to take him in all directions, she was not
suspicious, and she did not complain. It was natural that he should not
stay with her (‘him so clever!’), of course he had plenty of other
things to do; the meekness that had not rebelled at her mother’s
harshness was not even surprised at her husband’s indifference. She had
something to console her, for before a year was over her little Annie
was born, and the next year her little Nat, and the care and affection
she lavished on her babies made such an opportunity for love as she had
not known before. She had been only just seventeen at the time she
married, and was barely nineteen when her last child was born.
And so the years slipped away slowly, one by one, in the simple
employments of a workman’s wife, marked by the continual development of
the children, and by drunken outbursts too frequently from Rob. But, as
years went on he was still less at home, and even when he professed
to be there he was not seen there often, though Jenny often sat up for
him all the night that she might open the door as soon as his step was
heard. No home in the village was kept more daintily, no children were
prettier or more neatly dressed, the heavy poverty that pressed
continually had nothing repulsive in its outward signs. But the
neighbours complained that Mrs Salter kept herself too much apart; she
had the reserve of sorrow, and preferred to be alone.
More than eighteen years had passed since Jenny’s wedding day, and she
had lived in the same place all the time, for the vagaries and expenses
of her husband had never left him able to provide a larger house. At
the foot of the hill there is a public-house, and by the side of it is
a tiny lane, a lane that is not many feet in length, and is closed by a
gate that leads out into the fields. Rob owned the old, whitewashed,
red-tiled cottage that was nearest to the gate, with a little garden at
the side, between it and the field. It was not large enough for a
growing family, but those who are poor must do the best they can.
And, certainly, if there was not much room in the cottage the same
thing could not be said of the fields beyond, the wide, marshy fields
that stretched down to the canal, and were known as the ‘Thackbusk’ by
the village-folk. There were silver-grey willows in those
wide-stretching fields, and masses of elder in the summer-time, and
above could be seen the red roofs of the village, and far in the
distance the grey cathedral towers. The Thackbusk allowed you plenty of
room to play; the children of Jenny knew that very well.
But those children were almost man and woman on that July evening when
Jenny left the train, and walked alone down the street beneath the hill
with the bruise on her shoulder, and a sore weight on her heart. Some
red cows passed peaceably by her as she went, with the urchin who drove
them loitering behind; and a young workman was leaning outside the
railings of the chapel, proud of holding his baby in his arms. Jenny
went on alone, with her head bent always downwards, and her mind in her
child’s sick-room, and in tender contrivances, and the burdens that
were both of memory and foreboding pressing their habitual weight upon
her heart till she did not hear the good-evening of a neighbour who
stood at his door with his pipe in his mouth. The man’s eyes followed
her curiously as she walked, but she did not turn round, so she was not
aware of it.
‘Well, mother, you have been a while,’ were the words that greeted her,
as she slowly opened her cottage-door at last, not prepared for the
fever-worn face that raised itself from the cushions of the great
wooden arm-chair on the hearth. ‘You wouldn’t expect to see me here
downstairs, but I couldn’t rest after what Mrs Beeton said--she says
that they’re going to Rantan us through the village--I wish I was a
man, that I might kill them all! We’ll never get over this even’,
never, never; we had best leave the place as soon’s this night is
done!’
These were not the most cheering words to come as greeting to an
anxious heart at the close of a weary day; but Jenny, although they
struck her like a blow, was more alarmed for her daughter than herself.
With renewed anxiety she laid aside her bonnet, and came to the hearth
to bend above her child; and Annie raised slowly her languid, beautiful
face, shaken with the sobs that she had till then restrained. We will
leave them to cling to each other, and to whisper, and go out into the
village street to learn the rest.