A BETRAYAL AND A FALL
THE slanting light made the corn-fields into a radiance when Nat
returned in the evening from the town. With the slow step of one who
lingers and hesitates he went along the path which led from the station
to the village. If any one had been close enough to observe his
features a look of conflict would have been apparent on them--in fact
the whole day had been a battle-field for a contest which was not
decided even now. He did not know yet if he intended to turn towards
the village, or to the path which led to the mansion of the Squire.
How shall we unravel from its entanglement the confusion of thoughts
out of which a purpose grows? It is impossible for us to know all Nat
felt that day; we may even add that he himself did not know. But in
order that we may be able to understand him in some measure we must
make an effort to look down into the feelings of a boy.
Nat had told himself then, as he walked along to the town, that his
mother was ‘sore grieved now that Nan was gone;’ that his mother had
‘allays made so much o’ Nan.’ ‘She wouldn’t ’a cared if it had
been _me_;’ murmured the sore feeling of an old jealousy; ‘she allays
thought Annie a sight more good nor me.’ And then he told himself that
his sister ‘needn’t talk; _he_ wouldn’t ’a disgraced himself as she had
done.’ It was hateful to think ‘how all t’ folk ’ud speak; they’ll make
us the gossip o’ t’ village now.’ And still beneath these thoughts
stirred the remembrance that he had not decided what he should do with
the letters of the Squire.
Oh, there was no need for him to think about them; he would make up his
mind as he walked back from the town. He would think of his
sister--about the village people--‘them as Rantanned father, an’ is
allays hard on us.’ He felt chafed, reckless, stung with the shame of
that which had been sorrow the night before, ready to assure himself
that it did not matter what he did, that even his mother did not care
for him. These feelings may have been natural, we will not say they
were not; but it is not in such feelings that virtue finds support.
So he came to Lindum, to the house of Mr Lee, and duly delivered the
letter from the Squire; and was told that the master of the house was
absent, and would not return until late in the afternoon. After this he
performed some commissions at various shops, and had his mid-day meal
at the coffee-palace in the High Street. On an ordinary occasion he
would have enjoyed the fun of it all, and would especially have
considered the meal a luxury, but to-day he could eat but little,
and only just took up the newspaper--although a boy feels himself a man
when he takes up a newspaper! When he paid for his dinner sixpence was
returned to him which he carefully put into his pocket for the Squire.
In this action also there was nothing unusual, but this time he felt
himself to be proud of his honesty. He had a few more commissions to
do, after which he wandered in the streets, and at last found his way
once more to the house of Mr Lee. Tina had not been mistaken--after he
had waited there for some while at the door the housekeeper put into
his hands a letter for the Squire.
Nat felt his heart thump as he received it, and felt his face grow red,
as if he had been suddenly detected in a theft, whilst his fingers
closed hastily upon the envelope with the sensation that they were
being burned. Wild thoughts passed through him as if he must get rid of
it, must give it back to the servant to be sent on by the post; but he
had not the courage or the skill to act upon them, and with the letter
in his pocket went out into the streets. And then, for the first time,
it rushed openly through his mind that he _must_ keep his word to Miss
Gillan even if he were disgraced for it.
With that feeling throbbing as if it were a pulse, and walking at his
utmost speed, he speedily left the streets, and found himself once more
by the edge of the river, in the radiant evening. Since he had
left Mr Lee he had not stopped to think; he felt pursued, breathless,
without even a wish to rest. But now, from very fatigue, he stood still
by the river. And, as he paused, he remembered that the Squire had been
kind to him.
Oh, Mr Mallory would never forgive him, never, if he were to find out
that he had been disobeyed, or if he were once to discover that his
messenger had been talking to other people about his private letters.
He was so terrible when he was offended, Mr Mallory was. And he was
himself the Squire’s favourite, all the servants said he was. What was
Miss Gillan to him, or what was he to Miss Gillan? He was not called
upon to disobey the Squire for her.
He walked on again. He felt calm, happy, his mind was at rest. And
then, all at once, a reaction seized him once more.
Oh, oh, what a fool he was--the reaction seized him suddenly--to make
such a fuss about a little thing, a small thing, a trifle, that no one
would care about. Why, if Mr Mallory were to hear that he had been to
the Manor Farm, there wouldn’t be anything so very bad in that .... he
would never know .... that Nat had gone there to show his letter.....
The last thought had a sting from which there was no escape, for Nat
had been taught by his mother to be fastidiously honourable. Only, if
she did see his letter what was the harm in that? it was only the
outside of it that she _wished_ to see--it was only an idea, a fancy
that she had, she would not do anything to bring him into disgrace.
‘She _likes_ me,’ thought Nat, and the blood rushed to his face; ‘and I
like her too .... and I must do this for her.’ .... So up and down,
literally up and down he paced, and the beating of his heart went up
and down with him. And then, suddenly, with a quick, decided movement,
he left off reflecting, and walked onwards steadily.
There are few things more strange, if we come to think of it, than the
peace which possesses us when we have decided to do wrong; it is to be
accounted for, I suppose, by the cessation of conflict which appears to
be a benefit at whatever cost it is obtained. Nat was a lad, and
disturbed about a trifle, or at least by that which may appear such to
us, but in those moments he experienced the calmness which has been
felt by wrong-doers more guilty than himself. It was only when at
length he drew near the village that he began to waver again, as we
have seen, and to ask himself whether he would pursue the lower road,
or would take the turn that led to the grey house of the Squire. He
drew closer, closer; he saw in the golden evening the dark trees on the
hill, the red chapel on his left .... he reached the turn .... for one
instant he stood still. For one instant; and then, with steady
footsteps he pursued his way through the lower village-street.
Down the street he went in the radiant, summer evening .... he could
not think .... his heart could scarcely be stirred even by terror lest
he should meet his master. No! the street was still, there were even no
village-people; he reached the next turn, and began to mount the hill;
he passed the old stones, and the grey tower of the church; he stood at
length by the yard-door of the Farm. The yard-door was open, but the
yard was deserted, the pigeons fluttered, the black dog wagged its
tail; he went to the back-door, and opened it, and went in. Down the
passage he went to the door of Tina’s sitting-room, and before he had
knocked she opened it herself.
And in an instant, with a clutch upon his hand that made her little
fingers seem hard as steel, she had drawn him, or almost dragged him
into the room, and had closed the door upon them that they might be
alone. In another instant she had forestalled his unwilling movement,
and had taken the letter from the pocket of his coat. And then, with a
fluttering laugh, and her finger on her lip, she ran to the further
door and left the room.
If the fault of Nat deserved speedy retribution it must be owned that
his punishment did not fail; his feelings were not to be envied during
those long minutes which he spent alone. He could not imagine what had
become of Tina, or what cause had induced her to leave the room at
once; a feverish dread was on him that this whole business might
turn out more serious than he had imagined it to be. As the minutes
passed this fever became almost like insanity, and he felt every moment
in more danger of a detection which would destroy for ever all hope he
had in life. He longed to pursue Tina, and yet he dared not do so; he
fell down at length, almost crying, upon a chair. But even as he found
himself giving way in this unexpected manner, the further door opened,
and Tina entered the room again.
She was pale, her eyes appeared to look into the distance, she did not
seem like herself. Without saying a word, she held out the letter. Her
eyes watched him as she did so. He seized it eagerly, without daring to
look at it, and put it back into his pocket without a word. Then she
seemed relieved, and said a few playful words, giving back to him a
seal which she had once borrowed from him, and telling him that he must
be a good boy and not get into a scrape, and that he must make haste
with the letter to the Squire. And then, still holding his hand, she
pressed it softly, and with a gentle movement pushed him from the room.
Nat felt the soft touch still as, in confusion and bewilderment, he did
not delay to hasten from the house. Even now it was possible for him
to escape detection, and to deliver the letter safely into the keeping
of the Squire. If that could be done he might yet be free from
danger--that is to say, if the ‘downhill path’ will allow of ‘turning
back.’
He was gone; the door of the house was closed behind him; and Tina was
left alone in the ‘old kitchen,’ with her hands tightly clasped, and
her face listening and intent. Some strange excitement was upon her,
that was evident, it seemed like the excitement of fear. As soon as it
was certain that her companion had left the house, she let herself fall
down on a seat, and hid her face in her hands.
Oh! what had she gained by this foolish risk she had encountered, the
most foolish and needless of the many risks of her life--what had she
gained and what might she not have lost if her action should come to
the knowledge of the Squire? She had been so insanely bent on the
perusal of his letter in order that she might find out the mind of Mr
Lee, so certain that her uncle was concocting some plan with her
brother, the knowledge of which she was not to be allowed to share. For
her brother had left the house in the early morning, only leaving a
note to let her know that he was gone; and her suspicions, always ready
where he was concerned, had at once connected his departure with his
visit to Mr Lee. Her mere idle wish to see the outside of the letter
(which had included some indefinite desire as well) had thus been
turned into a craving that she could not control, and that she was
determined to gratify at any risk. And yet when the moment came
she might have been terrified, if only .... only .... it had not been
all so quickly done.
For, oh! it was easy! The letter was badly fastened, and sealed as an
afterthought with a little round of wax; it had not been difficult to
take off the seal and to renew it when the letter was replaced. She had
been excited ... it was that which frightened her, which made her
uncertain of all that she had done, but she was quite sure that she had
fastened the letter carefully and had impressed the wax with the plain
seal Nat had lent to her. If that should be recognised; but it could
not be recognised; and in any case she had returned the seal to him,
not without some conscious impression, as she did so, that his danger
would now be greater than her own. Bah! there was no danger, there
could not be any danger; she had not wished to do any harm to him.
If only the letter had been worth the trouble! for it could not be said
to be of worth in any sense--one single cold reference to the visit of
her brother contained all the information that it gave. And yet she
must really be feeling like a criminal because she had dared to look
into its contents--and Tina leant on the table flushed, throbbing
cheeks, and dark eyes whose brilliancy had gained fresh sparkles now.
She would go to her room and see that all was safe, for absolutely she
did not feel secure! And so, with a murmur of singing, for excitement
made her sing, she left the old kitchen, and stole upstairs to her
room.
All was quiet there, it was just the time of sunset, and beyond the
window the Fens lay in crimson glow; the little table at which she had
read the letter was in the centre of the room, and piled with
fancy-work; the red sealing-wax had been carefully put away, the candle
extinguished and returned to the dressing-table. All this she saw at a
glance, with a sensation of relief; she advanced two steps .... then
suddenly stood still. A packet like the enclosure of a letter lay
before her on the ground.
In another instant, with a start and gasp of terror, Tina had sprung to
the door, and locked and bolted it, had snatched up the paper from the
ground on which it lay, and had thrown herself down upon her bed to
open it. In another moment its contents were revealed to her--it
contained a few words referring to a subscription, and a Bank of
England note. At the moment when she had opened and read the letter
this enclosure must have dropped unperceived to the ground.
Trembling, shaking with terror, and almost crying, Tina tried in vain
to discover what she could do, whilst the terrible bank note lay
between her fingers, an indisputable witness if it should be discovered
there. In that first instant she thought of rushing after Nat; but he
was already gone, he must have been gone some while; and even if he
were recalled it might not be possible to open the letter for the
second time. Yet there was the bank note--she walked up and down,
wringing her hands; she seized it between her fingers as if she could
have torn it into pieces. Her reckless action seemed already to have
consequences, and to ensure her a terrible punishment. As in fright and
despair she leant against the window, the glowing Fens appeared to be
stained with blood.
Ah, bah! what a fool she was, there was no need for despair. Or, at any
rate, she would not despair so soon. The Squire might not know, he
might never know what had happened, for the rest of the letter
contained no allusion to the note; or, if he did suspect that the
letter had been tampered with, his suspicion would naturally fall
entirely upon Nat. Poor Nat, it might happen that he would lose his
place, but then her friends in London would give him some assistance;
or if she herself became the heiress of her uncle, she would have
plenty of opportunities of giving help to him. He might betray
her--Tina’s eyes became hard and terrible--but then, if he did, he
would not be believed; and she would explain to him how necessary for
both their sakes it was that she should not be suspected of the deed.
And yet she trembled, as she had never trembled yet, and as she leant
against the window her eyes were wet with tears.
Tina wept; and at some distance the companion of her danger was
returning with an uneasy conscience to his home, all unconscious
as yet of this new peril, but still sore hearted as he had never been
before. He did not linger to look at the blood-red radiance, which lay
as a reflection of the sunset on the Fens, or to indulge in any
delicious expectations of spending the evening at the Manor Farm. With
the fear of detection heavy on his soul he sat down silently in a
corner of the cottage. If any discovery were to occur that night he
would wait for it in his home.
The blood-red radiance, that seemed like a dream of judgment, paled,
faded, and the evening twilight came; and then the moon rose behind a
dim, fleecy sky, with streaks of dark blue between the pallor of the
clouds. No servant came through that clear, sober light to summon the
unfaithful messenger to the presence of the Squire; and, although a few
footsteps passed down the Thackbusk lane, the cottage near the
Thackbusk was left unvisited. It was not until the depth of the night
had come that, according to the report of the morning, there arrived a
visitor.
Was it true? Oh, could it be true? The startling rumour fled faster
through the village than the first report had done, awakening the
excitement of an eager curiosity, and of a gossip that would be in no
haste to cease. For it was said that in the dead of that August night a
figure had been seen lying on the door-step of Jenny Salter’s home; and
that two labourers, returning from their work, had paused by its
side, and had then aroused the house. It was Annie Salter who lay there
in the darkness, forlorn, exhausted, too much worn out to move, her
hair loose, untended, and hanging upon her shoulders, and on one of the
fingers of her hand a wedding-ring. In this manner, after her
mysterious disappearance, the daughter of Jenny returned once more to
her home.