NAT IN DESPAIR
THE rest must follow--was already on its way, in as sure a course as
that of the golden autumn days--and already with speculations
concerning Jenny Salter’s daughter were mingled others with regard to
her son. For the lad was altered, that could not be denied--the
disgrace of his sister seemed to have wrought a change in him.
Indeed it would be difficult to express in sufficiently vivid words the
alteration that was observed in Nat--a change all the more apparent
from the strength and youth which continued persistently to belong to
him. His hair was still crisp, with a tendency to curl, his colour
still bright with heat and harvest-work; and beneath the broad straw
hat, convenient for harvest-time, his face was as handsome as it had
ever been. But he seemed careworn, was restless and abstracted, started
when he was called, preferred to work alone--to his features had come
that look of ceaseless trouble which does not often accompany the
trouble of the young. The disgrace of his sister might account for this
alteration, but there appeared to be much that was strange in it
all the same. Poor Nat! he could not have told, even if he had asked
himself, how much of his own trouble was caused by his sense of
the continual suspicion under which his sister lay--the abiding
home-grief, which was renewed every evening by the sight of her
obstinate silence and his mother’s dumb despair. It was that sense of
disgrace which aggravated the knowledge that he himself deserved
disgrace; the double weight was a load intensified, a burden that had
become unendurable. At night, when he awoke, he could hear himself
muttering; but in the day-time his pride supported him, and his misery
was dumb. For he had no friend to whom he could confide his trouble,
and the atmosphere of his home-life had not been one of confidences.
Yet there was danger! he had felt it from the moment when he knew that
the Squire was dissatisfied with the letter he had received from Mr
Lee, that he had laid it on one side as a matter in need of
explanation, and that he was determined to speak to Mr Lee on his
return. The letter _might_ have been opened, he could not be sure that
it had not been; and in any case investigations were dangerous--for he
was aware that the slightest suspicion on the part of his employer
would be sufficient to alter the conduct of the Squire. Meanwhile the
continued kindness with which Mr Mallory treated him supplied the burn
of a perpetual reproach; and there were moments when he could have
found it in his heart to throw himself at his master’s feet and confess
his fault. He could not--the fault belonged also to another, and he
could not betray another in the attempt to save himself.
So struggled his feelings during the course of harvest-work, whilst
blue sky shone down upon the golden fields, and gleaners with children
by their sides made up their bundles, and men and boys shouted above
last loads of corn. It was only when harvest was over, and the days
became short and grey, that he began to be torn with another pain. Miss
Gillan had never seen him since a too-well-remembered evening; she had
never again sent for him to the Farm. At first to poor Nat this seemed
only natural; but, as time went on and there came no sign from her, the
desire to see her became a craving pain.
Oh, he had made up his mind in the first rush of penitence that he
would never go to the Farm again, that if she asked for him he would
send a refusal, and that he would break resolutely from her influence.
And now there was no need for so much determination, for it was evident
that she did not care for him. And all his resolve became lost in the
craving; ‘If he could only see her and speak to her again!’
Through a warm, cloudy morning in September when the Fens were grey,
shadowy, and misty sunlight lay on the village streets, whilst far in
the eastern sky was an ominous tinge of red--through these signs of
approaching tempest Nat found his way once more to the Farm. He was
trying to justify himself by many reasons--the poor dog, crawling back
to his owner’s feet. Oh, he could not do without her, though he had
tried to do so; it would be enough if he could see her face again.
The back-door was open, and he could hear the sound of music--she was
in the old kitchen, and was playing dances there. Nat trembled to feel
how fast his heart was beating, so that he could scarcely pronounce the
words that asked if she were within. In another minute little Molly
brought back her message--Miss Gillan was obliged to him, but she would
not need him again. Nat did not answer, he felt that he could not
answer; without looking back he turned away at once.
He was engaged to do harvest-work, but he knew that labour was
impossible--he went out into the fields and wandered there for hours.
When he returned home in the evening, he found that a message had
preceded him--Mr James Robson had sent to ask Jenny why her son had not
appeared; and had added, moreover, that the lad was getting ‘strange
and idle,’ and that he wished the mother would ‘say a word’ to him.
Jenny did say a word, she even said many words, with the cold severity
that was her manner of greatest displeasure; and she ended by refusing
to let Nat have his tea, telling him that she could not afford to give
him meals for which he did not work. No doubt, it would have been
better if she had avoided that childish punishment, but the sore weight
of her own troubles lay upon her heart; and, moreover, it is not always
easy for a mother to be certain whether to treat a lad of seventeen
like a man or like a child. Nat found himself next morning too sick and
depressed to eat; but he would not make any complaint, and went
doggedly to his work--not relieved when he was told by his master
before the other boys and men that a ‘moocher’ deserved a thrashing,
and, if he were _his_ son, would get it too. Mr James Robson intended
to give a kindly warning, but a proud nature does not receive warnings
well; and although Nat set to work with stubborn earnestness, his
resolution only issued from pride and despair. He knew indeed that it
would not be difficult to regain his credit as long as he continued to
be the Squire’s favourite; but even that thought was a bitter
consolation, which could not comfort him in his temporary disgrace. If
he should ever fall from the favour of the Squire, he would not again
hold up his head amongst his companions.
Poor Nat! If any artist had passed by the harvest-field he must have
been struck by the sight of his youth and strength, of his well-formed
arms with shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, and of the beauty of his
flushed, sunburnt face. But this picture, so ready for an artist’s
hand, was under conditions which might render it less desirable--though
the mental torments under which the lad was writhing had not been
able to work much outward ravage yet. For the first time Nat felt drawn
to forbidden pleasures, to anything that would still the raging thirst
of life--he longed to enter the lighted public-house, to sing and dance
there, and drink away his fear and shame. His old pride restrained him,
that pride of old respectability which is too often the only safe-guard
left. He would wait till he saw if the Squire had any suspicion; after
_that_ it would not matter what became of him.
And then, on an autumn evening, as he went by the wall of the Farm,
going down into the village after his work for the Squire, the little
door in the wall opened suddenly before he reached it, and Tina Gillan
came out, without seeing him. She was in black, except for a knot of
red ribbons in her hat; she walked with uncertain steps as if she were
quivering. In this strange, restless manner she went down the road;
and, at some distance, Nat cautiously followed her.
It was a grey evening, and there was a stormy wind. About the streets
lay straw fallen from the loads of corn; the dead leaves had been
whirled into drifts, or lay scattered upon the path; the rising ground
in the distance was dull with purple mist. A mournful time, as full of
suggestions of trouble as the restless, black figure that went down the
village street, that passed the old tree with its yellow, withering
leaves, and pushed open with difficulty the heavy church-yard
gate. Nat followed her--she went down the church-yard path, and turned
through the open door into the church, into the dim church where she at
length stood still, and in which his footstep at length became audible.
In another instant she had turned round, and then turned upon him, with
the wildest gestures, and with wild, flashing eyes.
‘Oh, have you come here to taunt me,’ cried Tina, ‘to repeat to me
again what my brother’s letter tells, to remind me how clever you have
all been in deceiving me, so that he has been able to disgrace and ruin
us both? It was a fine scheme you concocted with my brother--you and
your sister, the low, hateful, village hussy--but if it brings shame to
us I can assure you that at any rate it will bring no good to you. If I
had known more I need not have wished for the Squire’s letter, in order
to try and discover what my brother would not tell me! Mr Lee will not
forgive us, you need not think he will; you will not be able to squeeze
money out of him!’
She put out her hands as if she would have torn him; and, as she did
so, Nat seized her in his arms. He was so much excited that he did not
know what he did ... he poured out protestations .... he grasped her
arms with his hands. And, even at that instant, he became aware in his
turn of a footstep--Alice Robson was standing in the dim church by his
side.
A terrible moment! He felt blind and faint, he could not resist the
escape of Tina from his grasp; with a blind movement he put out his
hands, and leant on the font to keep himself on his feet. And as he
leant against it, in darkness and bewilderment, he heard the voice of
his old companion.
‘Oh what have you done, Nat, what will become of you? Mother came to
fetch her hymn-book, she has heard and seen everything.’
No answer. The lad slowly raised himself from the font, and stood with
his head bent, looking down upon the ground. For once, Alice was
excited, and could not restrain herself, although he had not so much as
looked at her. For, whatever the meaning of this intimacy might be, she
could not imagine that it would bring aught but ruin to him.
‘Oh, if she was good and would do you good,’ cried Alice, ‘I wouldn’t
say a word to you, I’d be glad as you was glad. It’s not so, it isn’t,
she’s bad, she flatters you, she tries to persuade you as she cares for
you. What’s this as she’s been telling you about a letter? you haven’t
been doing any wrong to the Squire for her?’
‘So you’ve been a-spyin’, Alice Robson,’ Nat screamed out in a
frenzy--the overmastering frenzy, which is the result of rage and
shame; ‘you do things as t’ dirt in t’ street ’ud be ashamed to own,
and then speak to me as if ye was t’ parson, an’ had t’ right to
preach. I’ll make ye t’ laughing-stock of all t’ lads, I will! I’ll
tell ’em as ye cared about me though I’ve never cared for ye! Ye’ve
gi’en me a lot o’ preaching as ye thort must win my heart, but I’ve
never had a grain o’ love for ye--did ye ever think I had?’
He flung out the words as men fling blows in darkness, intent upon
striking and hurting if they can; and, as if borne backwards by the
violence of his passion, the farmer’s daughter retreated, and leant
against a seat. For one instant her face was averted, and he could only
see that she trembled; but then, with no visible effort, she turned to
him again. Her voice sounded gentle, restrained, in the intense silence
of the church; it was evident that she had regained her self-control.
‘Nat,’ said Alice, gently, though with a slight quiver in her tone,
‘there was mother with me, she’s heard and seen everything. Ye had
better speak to her, ask her to be quiet; she might do ye harm with the
village and the Squire.’
It is impossible to say what there was in her tone and manner that made
these words have the sound of a farewell, but he understood them--he
knew that a sense of duty would not allow her to leave him without a
warning even then. She was turning away, but she changed her mind, and
stood still, leaning her hand upon the back of a seat; her voice was as
gentle in its utterance as that of a child, who wishes to confess a
fault. ‘I’m sorry I’ve given you trouble,’ those soft tones said to
him; and she went on to the great doors, reached them, and was gone.
Her footstep was only just audible on the stones, but it had the sound
of the departure of a friend.
And he--left alone in the darkening autumn evening, which was all the
more dark and still within the church--he flung himself over the backs
of the nearest seats, and lay there with his arms hanging down, and his
face towards the ground, a shadowy, strangely extended figure in the
gloom. He did not move, he was too miserable to move, he could not
rouse himself to either tears or prayers. Some tears gathered slowly at
length, so slowly that they could not fall--he dropped to his feet, and
stole out into the night.