: Jenny: A Village Idyl by Curtois M A Margaret Anne - England Fiction; Villages Fiction; Siblings Fiction; Mothers Fiction

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ch circumstances it is barely possible that a young nature should not be overwhelmed--it is not surprising therefore that Tim sank into despair, and for more than two years lived on in hopelessness. But the irresistible strength that was in the boy refused to be crushed even by such circumstances; a purpose grew in him like a revelation, and inspired him with hope to mend his lot. One Saturday evening Tim returned without his money, and announced that he intended to keep his wages for himself.

The scene that followed need not be described. Tim lay on his bed through the whole of Sunday to recover from it. On Monday morning he returned to his work, under strict orders, seasoned with many oaths, to bring back at night the money he had withheld. He returned without it. This time there was no Sunday rest for him--but bruised as he was, he rose with the dawn on Tuesday and went to his work again. To a similar scene he returned on every evening of that week, but the close of the week found him unconquered; and on Saturday he came back to his family without his wages, as before.

This was too much. On the following Monday the father of Tim went to his master, and desired that his son's wages should be given into his own hands in future--he added that his son was 'a wicked boy who spent his money bad.' Tim's master, who took an interest in his farm-boy, replied to this request with a flat denial--he declared that the boy deserved to have some money, and that, no doubt, on his side also there might be 'tales to tell.' This last observation was too true to be disputed, the father left him in a rage, and at once sought out his son, and informed him that he 'would have no more of this fooling--he must bring the money that night, or he might look to be killed.' In the nature of Tim there was not that instinct of running away which belongs to some natures in an eminent degree--with the fear of being murdered heavy on his heart, he returned, as usual, to his home that night. A terrible scuffle ensued, with regard to which I only know that a hot poker was the instrument employed; and that burnt, scarred for life, believing himself to be dying, poor Tim was just able to crawl to a neighbour's door at last. The outbreak proved his salvation, his injuries excited sympathy, and the village rose in his defence--his father, uncle, and aunt, were driven from it, work was offered to the lad from all sides; and at the age of fourteen he found himself able to begin his life again. From that time forth he prospered; he advanced from one situation to another, he met with kindness and assistance; at the age of twenty he was a skilful workman, and able without difficulty to maintain himself. Of his past life, the life of his childhood, he never spoke; and indeed such stories are only useful when they remind us that our land has still dark corners into which we must carry candles when we can. It is true indeed that Tim had emerged from the darkness--but there are those whom the darkness overwhelms.

This then was the workman, lean, and lithe, and active, with an anxious brow, and 'poor Annie' on his lips, who parted from Nat in the grey light of the morning, and turned his footsteps towards the village streets. Some hours later, with a face that was still anxious, and yet with something like eagerness in his tread, he left the Farm where he had been breakfasting, and went down the hill towards Jenny Salter's home.

A MORNING CALL

THAT home was in order although it was the morning, and daintily ready for the business of the day--an appearance that was always conspicuous wherever the hands of Jenny moved and worked. She had risen before the dawn to get her son's breakfast ready, and she had not been idle since the dawn had passed; already all things were 'straight,' and she was able to get out her stitching and to sit down to it. If the echoes of the 'Rantan' of the night before were lingering stormily about the place, no signs of that hidden tempest could be seen in the room in which she and her daughter sat and worked. And yet it may be that the clamour of the night was sounding in the hearts of both women as they sewed.

Their room had a raftered ceiling, which was painted yellow, whilst paper, woodwork and fire-place were a sober, greyish green, the quaint colouring being contrasted round the window with dimity hangings, exquisitely white. In the corner was an old clock which reached from floor to ceiling, whose face of brass made a familiar brightness there, and the sober walls were everywhere ornamented with numbers of little photographs in frames. Annie sat in an easy chair upon one side of the hearth, and her mother was opposite, each with work on her knee, for the master here had no reason to complain of any want of industry in the women of his home. The echoes of the 'Rantan' were in those women's ears, and, as they sat silent, their thoughts were turned to him.

'When'll father be comin' back,' Annie cried at last, and fiercely; 'comin' back in his shame to disgrace us all agen? I wish he'd come back to-night so as he might hear the sound o' that clamour ringin' in his ears. I'll not stay here to be made a laughin' stock, to hear the village rejoicin' over us, I'll go and wander away, for miles away, so as no one may see me, or know whose child I am.' She had never before spoken in that manner of her father, but her mother had not the heart to rebuke her now.

'I have tried to be good and to be respectable,' Annie cried, with a feverish movement of her hands; 'I've liked for to think as men should think well on us, and shouldn't not breathe a word agen our name. I won't try so hard now, I'll have some fun mysel'; it isn't no good whate'er I think or do; I'll not shut mysel' so close as I ha' done; they may answer for it as drives one past one's hope.' She relapsed into silence, but her lips were working as if the thoughts she had spoken were wrestling in her mind. Ah! Annie, a dangerous thought and a dangerous resolve, however natural to despair as young as yours. Her mother heard the words, and in some degree felt the danger; but, herself sad at heart, she had no power to speak.

The sound of a footstep--Annie raised herself suddenly, whilst a brilliant flush crimsoned both her face and neck, and her breath began to come and go hastily, though her dark eyes sparkled as if with sudden hope. In another instant, as the young workman knocked and entered, she lay back wearily, with her face pale again. Her change of expression caught her mother's passing notice, but poor Jenny was not learned in such signals. Ah! was there some hope, not confided to her mother, working in the girl's mind in spite of her passionate despair?

It was Tim who entered, appearing taller than usual, as he descended the step into the low, yellow-raftered room, taking off his blue cap with civility, and advancing with more timidity than was usual with him. He was still in his blue working jacket and in his corduroys, but his dark hair had been brushed and he looked spruce and fresh, and there was a red rose in the buttonhole of his jacket, although he was not accustomed to wear a flower. A lean, lithe figure, he advanced into the room, his bright eyes seeming to take in the whole of it as he came, and with it the delicate mother with her sewing in her hand, and the bright-haired girl on whom his gaze lingered last.

'I wonder as you come to see us, in this quiet way, Tim,' she said, 'now we're so public as all the village knows; I'm thinkin' it 'ud be more fun for you to come wi' the rest o' the lads an' shout at us. It isn't surprisin' if we get strange an' proud, now as we've all this notice taken of our ways.'

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