Jenny's Case

Chapter I

A MARSH VILLAGE. The little village of Nearthorpe lies about six miles inland from the east coast of Lindsey. There is nothing in particular to distinguish it from any other marsh village. It has a fine old church, which would seem to have been built for a much larger con gregation than Nearthorpe could ever have produced ; but in the good old days men built for the glory of God, caring very little whether the churches were full or empty. Round the church, which stands on a VOL. I. B slight rise, are grouped a few houses ; and away to the right is Farmer Donner's house and farm buildings. There are one or two outlying cottages, and as you stand at the church door you can see in the distance the houses of Kirby, a neighbouring village, form ing one parish with Nearthorpe, which is known as Nearthorpecum- Kirby.

If you look west, you see, about three miles away, the wolds, rising out of the dead level. To the north, south, and east, nothing breaks the flat marsh country except here and there a church tower or a windmill. If you climb the dusty stone stairs to the top of the church tower, you will see a net-work of roads and drains stretching away to the yellow line of artificial sandbank, which serves to keep out the sea. There are very few trees except pollard willows. A great deal of the land is arable, but as you near the coast there is more grass. Towards six o'clock one evening, Martin Frith was leaning over the gate of Farmer Donner's home-close. He was whistling softly to himself, and his eyes were fixed on the gate into the next field, as if he were ex pecting some one to come that way. The other village lads were still in the fields, but Martin had been out of work for more than a fortnight.

He was looked upon in the village as an idle, good-for-nothing fellow, and it was only when there was a great deal to do that he got an odd day's work from Farmer Donner. When Martin first left school Donner had given him a chance, and had tried him as "thirdy"; and, out of kindness to his father, who had worked on the farm longer than Donner himself, Martin was allowed to keep the place three years. At the end of this time the farmer's patience was exhausted — and no wonder, for when Martin should have been ploughing, his horses were generally to be seen quietly resting and switching their tails in peace, while he was in the nearest ditch tracing a rat run or watching for rabbits. He did not mind hard work if it was of a sporting description, and no other lad in the village could set traps and snares so warily or knew so well where hares and rabbits were likely to be found.

Just at present there was not much to be done on the farm, for the hay was all in and the corn was not yet ripe. This meant a trying time for Martin and black looks at home from his father. That very afternoon Donner had been complaining to old Frith about several pieces of mischief, for which, rightly or wrongly, Martin was blamed. The proverb about Satan and idle hands came in very conveniently. When any of the other lads were suspected of breaking a window or knocking down a fence, their mothers quoted it, and remarked that their sons had no time for such nonsense ; and the farmer repeated it to Martin's parents, sternly sug gesting that Martin should be packed off to seek his living elsewhere. Old Sam Frith would have sent him willingly, if it had not been that he feared his wife. Until now Eliza had stoutly refused to part with " the bairn," her only surviving child ; and she was of the opinion that it was "real mean o' the maister " not to find him work in the village.

A year ago Martin had almost persuaded her to let him go, and had secretly meant to enlist as soon as he got away. He hated the dull country life, and revelled in the stories of battles and war that he managed to get out of the Parish Lending Library. To handle a gun was his great ambition, and he pictured a soldier's life to himself as nothing but delightful musketry practice. It was unfortunate for him that just when his mother was beginning to give way, Joe Turner, one of the farm lads, fell ill, and old Sam's keen eye foresaw that there might be some difficulty in filling his place. Perhaps the farmer would be obliged to employ Martin, " if," as Sam said, " it pleased the Lord to taake Joe Turner." So Martin was kept at home to do Joe's work ; but in a month or two Joe recovered, and Martin was left idle as before.

However, something had happened to Martin in the interval which had taken away all his wish to leave Nearthorpe. While he was taking Joe Turner's place he had his dinner with the other lads in the farmer's kitchen. In the pause which generally came between the first course of smoking-hot plain pudding and the second of beans and bacon Martin had time to discover that Jenny Hornby, the farmer's maid-of-all-work, was a remarkably pretty girl and very "heppen" in the way she waited on the lads and cut up their pudding. As time went on he began to look for the dinner-hour with more eager ness than was natural even for a hungry lad ; and occasionally, as he sat in his place watching her, he became so fascinated that he actually forgot his second helping of beans and bacon. His taste was certainly good.

There was something in Jenny's appearance and delicate features which distinguished her from other girls of her class. She was a " union gal," that Donner had taken, ostensibly, out of charity, but really because he had learnt by experience that such girls could be worked harder for less wages, and were not so likely to leave as those who had a home to fall back on. Partly through her own pride, for she felt her position keenly, but no doubt chiefly because of the prevailing pharisaical spirit in such cases, Jenny had no friends. The eminently respectable village folk did not care to have much to say to her. Martin, however, was not so particular, for he too had no place among the respectable, and it may have been a kind of fellow feeling which made them draw together. He soon found many little ways of showing his feelings towards Jenny, and she was not slow to give him opportunities, for she liked him and was grateful for his friendship.

These months were the happiest Martin had ever spent. Even the work became almost a pleasure to him, although cutting up turnips and tending sheep and cows was not much to his taste. But now that his mind was full of thoughts of Jenny the time passed very quickly, and there was always the dinner-hour to look forward to and the few minutes behind the pig-stye before he went home in the evening. He began to dream of being steadier, of sticking to farm work, and of trying to please Mr. Donner. Then came Joe's recovery, and he was obliged to return to his idle habits. To-night he was waiting to see Jenny as she came home from milking. He did not join her in the field, for he knew that there he could be seen from the windows of the farm, and Mr. Donner had " no patience wi' laads coomin' a'ter the gals."

It was not long before Jenny finished her work, and came towards him with her pails. " I'm a'most feared o' lettin' yer carry 'em, Mart," Jenny said, as Martin took the pails from her. " The maister, he'd call me finely if he was to catch us." " He'll be gittin' his tea just now, an' I'll be aable for to carry these 'ere paails to the yard gaate wi'out him seein' us." They walked on together in silence for a few minutes, and then Jenny said, — " The maister, he says as how he weant have no sweatheartin' or owt o' that ; he says as how if he iver finds me keepin' coomp'ny wi' any of the laads, he'll gi' me warnin', an' send me back to the union, seein' as no respectable folks 'ull taake a workhouse gal wi'out a character. I tode him as I hadn't no sweatheart, an' as how I didn't want you a-coomin' a'ter me; but I'm sewer as he didn't beleave me.

It 'ud be a straange and bad thing if he sent me awaay." " He weant do that," answered Martin quickly. " You're an ower heppen lass, Jenny, specially wi' the cows an' the pigs." He stopped at the yard gate, and put down the pails ; and then added, trying to get hold of Jenny's hand, — " But yer didn't really mean as I wasn't to coom a'ter yer, Jenny ? " " I doan't knaw as I didn't," said Jenny, in a provoking tone. " I doan't want no sweat hearts." Then she continued half-hesitatingly, " But you're the on'y one who iver speaks to me, 'cept about the work that's got to be done, an' in course I like a chat now an' again — wi'out meanin' nothink mower." " Eh, but, Jenny," said Martin, trying to pull her towards him, " doan't yer like to be tode as you've got a pretty faace." A minute or two passed, in which Martin certainly played the part of sweetheart ; and, judging by Jenny's face, he appeared to have silenced all objections for the time being.

But presently there came a shrill voice through the open kitchen door, — "Jenny! Jenny! wheer are yer? Maake haaste wi' them paails, yer great idle gawby." " Theer's Mrs. Bagster ; I tode yer that's how it 'ud be," exclaimed Jenny crossly, " let's have no mower o' that ; " and she took up her pails and walked towards the house, only paus ing to say, — " I reckon as you'd best wait till you're addlin' a man's waages afoor yer coom a-courtin'." Martin walked slowly back to his father's cottage, which stood by itself some way from the village. He looked vacantly over the flat field on either side of the road. That parting thrust of Jenny's had gone home, and left him sore and uneasy. It was not thus she had treated him when Joe was supposed to be dying. He began to regret his idle habits, and to wish heartily that he could find work.

Farmer Donner was the only man in Near thorpe who had it to give, and all his places were filled. He kicked a stone out of his way impatiently, and then stopped. Of course he might go away to another farm, if he had the luck to get a situation, but then he would have to leave Jenny, and this he could not make up his mind to do. It was impossible that such a lovely face should remain long without ad mirers. By a stroke of good luck he was first in the field ; but, unless he remained on the spot to maintain his advantage, he felt he should lose her. Some one else, who was earning a living, and could look forward to making Jenny a comfortable home, would soon step into his place. As it was, he felt she was really beginning to depend on him for sym pathy. Mrs. Bagster, the farmer's house keeper, was anything but an easy mistress, and Jenny had a hard life with her.

It was a comfort to escape sometimes and tell her troubles to Martin, who was always ready to listen and sympathise. He wished he could get a place near at hand, so that he could come home on Sundays ; but he knew such places were very seldom to be had, and he was painfully conscious that he had nothing to recommend him. He walked on towards home, thinking it very hard lines that now, when he had all the desire to work, it seemed impossible to get employment. Old Sam Frith was standing outside his cottage, leaning against the wall, and smoking a short clay pipe. He seemed quite impervi ous to the stream of talk that Mrs. Frith was pouring forth in shrill tones from the back kitchen, where she was washing up the tea things. " Well," she was shouting, " I do saay, an' I saay it again, if the lad has to go awaay from his own folks, as is his nat'ral protectors, theer is no one I'd sooner see him with than his Uncle Josiah, as is my own moother's son, an' was born just one year an' six moonths an' five daays afoor I was.

He's a real Godfearin' maan an' all, as 'ull never suffer sin to go unrebewked in his house, that he weant. Law ! Sam, talk o' praayin', it's a fine thing to hear him praay, it's that movin' ; an', my con science ! he's a straange and good maan to talk to folks as is a-dyin'. If iver maan under heaven 'ull convince 'em o' sin, that maan 'ull do it, an' no mistaake. Why, I remember " " Well, well," interrupted Sam crossly, " mebbe your broother Josiah 'ull do as well as anoother ; leastwaays, if he'll gi' the lad work an waage. it 'ull satisfy me. Mart had better look sharp an' addle summut, for mebbe he'll have to support me afoor long. If this 'ere rumptiz goas on much longer, I shall soon be fit for nowt. We'll have to goa to the workhouse, for they're gettin' mower an' mower mean about out-door relief."

" Doan't talk to me about the workhouse!" said Mrs. Frith, coming out to the door with the metal teapot which she was polishing ; " none of my fam'ly's iver coom so low as that. If Josiah could hear yer, he'd saay as you wasn't trusting the Lord to saay such things ; " and she gave vent to her indignation by rubbing the teapot violently. " An' as for your rumptiz," she continued scornfully, " if you'd do as I tell yer, and not drink beer, but taake the mixture as my graandmoother larnt my moother, as larnt me, it 'ud do yer a deal o' good. My moother, she gaave it to father ; an' I can tell yer a'ter he'd had it once or twice he niver complaained o' paains in his legs no mower. All you've got to do is to put as much pounded brick an' sulphur as 'ull goa on a two-shillin' piece into a tumbler o' hot gin and watter.

Shall I maake yer a sup ? " vol. 1. c " I reckon," said Sam, " as the hot gin and watter 'ud do well enew wi'out spoilin' it wi' no brick dust or owt o' that." " An' yow to be allus complaainin' o' paains i' the legs," retorted Mrs. Frith with profound contempt, " yer weant try nothink to ease 'em." And she went into the house. Just then Martin appeared at the garden gate, and Sam's face grew more gloomy as he watched him coming up to the house. " Now, lad," he growled, " it ain't no use to saay nowt about it, for your moother and me's maade up wer minds ; so do as your bid, an' maake the best on it." Martin stood still and looked at his father, dreading what might be coming. " Farmer Donner, he's been here to-daay, and we've been havin' sich a parle, an' he says he weant stan' it no longer.

Either you goa, or we maay all three expect to goa coom Laady Daay. Just to think o' him saayin' that, and me as has worked for Donner all his life an' his father afoor him ! An' all along of an idle gommy like yow. You're a disgraace to the village, alwaays gawmin' about at the public, and wearin' in drink the little mooney yer do addle yersen an' what yer can git out o' your moother's saavin's an' all. An' now they tell me as you're beginning to look a'ter the gals. So you've got to goa, and your moother, she's wrote to your Uncle Josiah to see if he'll have yer." " Yis, Mart, lad," said Mrs. Frith, coming out again, " an' real thankful you ought to be if yer uncle is willin' to taake yer, for he's a upright, honest maan, as 'ull do his best to train yer up in the waay yer should goa. I'm sewer it's real hard for me to part wi' yer," she added, her voice softening a little, " but it seams as if the Loord meant to have it so, though it's a bit hard on folks as has on'y one bairn left.

But, as I says to your father, I says, if yer has to goa awaay, it's your Uncle Josiah as 'ull do mower for yer than any straange body." Martin had listened without a word, and when Mrs. Frith had finished he walked slowly round the house and threw himself down under a tree out of sight of his parents. It seemed as if every one was plotting to drive him from Jenny. His parents thought he had accepted their decree with sullen indifference, but they were very far from correct. While he lay there on the grass, fiercely cutting at a fallen bough with his knife, he tried to think of some means of escape. When he was a little boy his mother had once taken him to stay with Uncle Josiah, and he had a keen recollection of the miserable evenings, and more especially of the dreary Sundays ; for Josiah Smith was as strict in his views of the Sabbath as any of the old Puritans.

If the farm had been in the neighbourhood of Nearthorpe, perhaps Martin would have made up his mind to the life, however dis tasteful ; but Josiah lived the other side of the county, and that would mean complete separation from Jenny. To-morrow there was to be a rat hunt at the farm, and Martin was to help the rat catcher. It would be the first day's work he had had for more than a fortnight. If he could get an opportunity he would speak to Donner afterwards and ask to be given some of the extra harvest work. Donner knew he could work hard now, and might just as well help him as send to the nearest town for day labourers. He would have one try at all events, but he had not much hope of success. The farmer was a hard man, and Martin knew too well that he had given great cause of complaint. It was true that he had taken to spend his evenings at the public-house, and when he had money enough he drank more than was good for him.

However, this was not often, and since his friendship with Jenny it had not once occurred. His evenings at home had been dreary and uncomfortable. He was idle and lazy, but it was partly because the inducement to work had never been sufficient. Now it was very different. He had something to work for — a reward which the strength of his passion for Jenny told him would be ample compensation, even though the work itself might be uncongenial. But who would believe in his good resolutions and not laugh at the idea of such a sudden reformation ? He did not go in till it was nearly dark, and he had some hope that his father would have gone to bed. In one respect he had quite made up his mind. If he was obliged to leave Jenny, it should be for a life of his own choosing — he would enlist.

Chapter II. Rat-catching

"You'd best keep a sharp look-out on that sarvant gal o' yours to-daay, Mrs. Bagster," said Donner, as he was having his breakfast the next morning. " Martin Frith's a-coomin' to help the rat-catcher, an' if yer doant mind she'll be idlin' all her time awaay a-goin' on wi' him. She's a slaape lass, and wants a tight hand, I can tell yer. I've told her if iver I find 'em keepin' comp'ny, off she shall goa, theer an' then — straight back to the union ; an' I weant gi' her no character. That lad's good for nowt, an' I'm thankful to saay as Frith's a-goin' to send him off." The parlour door was open, and not a word the farmer said was lost by Jenny, who RAT-CATCHING. 25 was in the kitchen. Donner was not in the best of tempers. He had just been round the barn with the rat-catcher, and had found that there had been a great deal of damage done by the rats, and as yet none had been caught.

Jenny felt that she must be careful to-day. She had been at the farm long enough to know that Donner's threats need not be taken too literally, but all the same when he was angry he was capable of sending her away at a minute's notice. It would be very unwise to be seen speaking to Martin. She hoped he would not attempt it, and she felt almost glad that he would soon be too far away to cause her any anxiety. Last night she had heard Donner talking to Mrs. Bagster of Josiah Smith's farm, and she had gathered that it must be some way from Nearthorpe. Two or three months ago Martin's banishment would have been a great blow to Jenny, but now the fear of losing her place went far towards reconciling her to the idea. There was a second reason, but this Jenny was half ashamed to own even to herself.

She had another admirer, who was no less a person than Carr, the village policeman. To think of him in the light of a possible husband seemed great presumption to poor destitute Jenny, and yet, try as she would, she could not help hoping that there might be a serious meaning to the many little attentions he had shown her lately. He must be well enough off to marry whenever he liked, and he would be able to give her a comfortable little home of her own. Then the other village girls would no longer be able to look down on her, but would probably secretly envy her position as the policeman's wife. She liked RAT-CATCHING. 27 Martin a great deal better, but it was no good thinking of him : it would be years before he could afford to marry. She did not want to offend him ; he was so kind to her, and she would like him always to be her friend.

If he had been steady and had got on, it would have been very different. "Git on wi' your work, Jenny," said Mrs. Bagster, coming into the kitchen ; " doan't stand gawmin' out o' the winder. Git them theer taaties peeled an' the taable set. Maake haaste, do now. Law ! what a staate o' dirt the plaace 'ull be in wi' sich a lot o' great men coomin' in to dinner. I can't abear that rat-catcher man. I reckon as how he's mower bother clattin' about wi' his dogs an' them stinkin' ferrets than all the rats i' Nearthorpe put togither. Law ! what's he coomin' up here for now ? " Jenny looked out of the window and saw the rat-catcher coming to the back door. " We doan't want him in here wi' his great howery boots. Goa to the door, Jenny, an' see what he's coom for." " The maister sent me for a can o' beer, marm," said the rat-catcher, speaking over Jenny's head to Mrs. Bagster ; " an' mebbe while the gal's a-fetchin' it you'd be so good as to let me taake a seat."

He came into the kitchen, and sat down by the table. " I'm nigh tired to ded," he went on, " throughout havin' killed sich a sight o' wermin for Squire Slingsby yisterdaay. The squire, he was theer watchin' us all daay hissen, an' theer was his groom, an' coachman, an' keeper all helpin'. But I'd reckoned on havin' the underkeeper to do the diggin', an' RAT-CATCHING. 29 hadn't took no laad wi' me. When, damme ! if I didn't find they'd sent the seller off last week sudden for summat, I dunno what. An' I had to do all the diggin' mysen, for none o' them graand gen'lemen o' the squire's 'ull touch a spaade." " I'm glad to hear as soom one has had theer mooney's worth out o' yer," said Mrs. Bagster sharply, " for yer doant seam to do nowt but maake work for oother folks when yer coom here ; " and she frowned fiercely at his dirty boots.

" Squire Slingsby, he's a real gen'leman, he is," continued the rat-catcher, ignoring Mrs. Bagster's remark and addressing him self more to Jenny, who had come back with the beer. " I'd like to sarve him, I would. If I were ten, well, saay fifteen years younger, I'd ask him to gi* me this 'ere plaace as underkeeper. He said he was on the look-out for a likely laad. Team us a sup o' that beer out, theer's a good lass. I reckon it 'ud be a deal better to be in one gen'leman's sarvice than to be sent for here an' theer all ower the country, niver knawin' what sort o' queer folks yer maay have to deal with." " Squire Slingsby taake him indeed ! " said Mrs. Bagster scornfully, when the rat-catcher had left the kitchen. "Not him, nor the likes o' him. It's a good strong, active lad as he wants, an' one that 'ull look well in corduroys when he has his shootin' parties, an' not a great hulkin' lubber like that."

Jenny immediately thought of Martin. He would certainly look well in a gamekeeper's dress. The life would just suit him. He would thoroughly enjoy it. Gamekeepers she knew earned higher wages than farm labourers. RAT-CATCHING. 31 The squire's headkeeper was quite a grand man. He must be better off even than Carr. If Martin were to get a good start, perhaps lie might be headkeeper some day. For a time this new idea put thoughts of Carr into the background. It was more than probable that he did not mean anything, while she could be certain of Martin's affection. She wondered if Martin knew of this vacancy. Somehow or other she must find an opportunity of telling him. It was difficult, for Mrs. Bagster seemed as if she meant not to leave her for a minute ; and when Martin came in with the others to dinner, Jenny was too busy to have a chance.

After dinner she had to wash up and tidy the kitchen and do up the grate. A quarter of an hour was wasted while Mrs. Bagster gave her a good scolding for having forgotten to mend the fire in the parlour. The kitchen floor had to be washed because the men had brought in so much dirt. At last she found a few minutes for getting the pigs' food ready, and then she started with the two buckets towards the pigstye. She had escaped Mrs. Bagster, but if she stopped to look for Martin, Donner would be pretty sure to catch her. On her way to the pigstye she had to pass the barn, and there she saw Donner holding one of the dogs over a hole in the wall from which a rat was expected to bolt. Both man and dog were watching the hole intently. " I reckon as it 'ull taake him all his time to catch the rat wi'out botherin' a'ter me an' all," thought Jenny, as she slipped past him round the corner of the barn to the pigstye.

Here, as luck would have it, she found Martin. RA T-CA TCHING. 33 He did not see her, as he was down on his hands and knees helping a furiously excited fox terrier, who was scratching away at a hole that evidently went under the pigstye. " Mart," said Jenny, " I've summut to tell )j yer. "Eh, Jenny, my dear, I was beginning to think I shouldn't git one kiss all daay." " Keep awaay, Mart, for goodness' saake. I'm scared to ded o' the maister catchin' us. Do yer want me to be sent awaay from Near thorpe an' all ? That's what 'ull happen an' noa mistaake if he sees yer a-sidelin' up to me like that. Git on wi' your wark, an' mind the dog, do now." Martin fell back and knelt down again by the dog, who was yelping and scratching harder than ever. Jenny emptied the contents VOL. I. d of her buckets into the pigs' trough, and then began sharply, — " Now, Mart, listen.

I knaw all about your havin' to goa to your uncle's, but yer beant theer yit, so doan't git down-hearted, laad. Mebbe yer weant have to goa a'ter all. Squire Slingsby, he wants an underkeeper. I nobbut heard on it this marnin', that rat-catcher maan was tellin' Mrs. Bagster. An' thinks I to mysen, ' that 'ull just do for Martin.' So doan't yer lose noa time, but be off to-morrer an' see if yer can behaave nice an' please the squire. Mebbe he'll like the looks on yer, for you're a smartish lad, Mart, when yer gits cleaned up a bit." " Oh, Jenny, sweatheart, it's real nice to hear yer speakin' like that. You're a straange an' good gal to have thought o' me. If I could but git the plaace I shouldn't have to goa awaay." RAT-CATCHING. 35 Here he nearly jumped up again, but Jenny held up a warning finger and frowned at him, so he only edged a little nearer to her on his knees.