THE SQUIRE SENDS FOR NAT
WHILST Jenny was making her solitary way through the darkness, the
library at the Hall had been lighted with wax candles, and Nat was
standing there before Mr Mallory. It was a more quiet scene than that
of the tumult at the cottage, but to an observer it must have appeared
to be still more fraught with doom.
For let us try to imagine it for a moment--the dark room, the wax
candles, the pale face of the Squire in his usual seat by the table,
the ill-concealed delight of the butler who stood behind him, the
interest of the two footmen who guarded the criminal. And that
criminal! a boy from whose face, hard, reckless, sullen, all beauty and
even all that might interest had fled, whose whole nature appeared to
be absorbed in the silent resistance which opposes itself to inevitable
doom. A self-evident wrong-doer, a convicted criminal, this son of a
respectable mother, who had been himself respectable. And this was the
lad who had been the Squire’s favourite, the boy whom the Squire’s
little son had played with, and had loved!
‘If I had not known you for so many years,’ said Mr Mallory, in
the relentless tone Nat had never heard from his lips before, ‘I would
not have treated you so mercifully, but I would have sent for the
police, and let them deal with you. This matter would have been
investigated earlier, but Mr Lee has been absent from the town; and,
although he made some allusions to an enclosure he had sent, I never
supposed it was of money that he spoke. I was writing about you at that
time to Mr Lee. I have not the least doubt that you were aware of it.
It is possible that you opened his letter from idle curiosity without
any suspicion that money was within it. Confess everything to me. It is
your only chance. It will be of some advantage to you to be kicked from
the premises instead of being sent to gaol.’
The Squire pronounced all these words--even the last--in the same cold,
even tone, as if he would not disturb himself enough to have anger in
his voice; and the dark eyebrows that always seemed so black beneath
his white hair were not drawn lower than usual on his eyes. But the
lines of his face, which were always fine and subtle, appeared as hard
as if they had been graved with an instrument; and, to one who had been
accustomed to be treated by him with the utmost gentleness, his tone
and glance must have been like a scourge of steel. A proud nature is
not won in this manner to repentance and confession; but Mr Mallory was
hardly in the mood for inducing penitence.
‘Did you open my letter?’ he asked, after a pause, with a glance
which was not that of a dreamer now. There was time for the delight of
the butler to become more strongly marked before the low answer was
audible in the room.
‘No, sir, I did not.’
They were the first words Nat had spoken since he had been brought into
the house, and he spoke in a tone that was in accordance with the
expression of his face, the hard, sullen tone of defiance and despair.
But it must be understood that, during the time that he was silent,
burning waves and struggles had been passing through the boy, a doubt
whether he should attempt to clear himself by revealing a tale that
would be held incredible. He shrank inexplicably from pronouncing
Tina’s name; he was not sure that his statement about her would be
believed; he was convinced that any attempt to connect her with his
fate could only end in involving her in ruin with him. And he told
himself--the poor fool! he could tell himself even then--that if he
betrayed her she would _never_ speak to him again, and that it was
even yet possible that of this dreadful action she might be as innocent
as he was himself. If he had been himself absolutely guiltless the
shock of the suspicion might have made him reckless about her; or if he
had been secure that he could clear himself he might possibly have
prevailed on himself to leave her to ruin. But on every side there
appeared to be destruction, and he was not conscious of any desire to
drag her down with him. His own fate was sealed, he knew that he
had been condemned from the moment that he attracted the suspicion of
the Squire.
The wax candles burned as if they were burning in a dream; the footmen
stood by him, ready to lay hold on him; and then, after a pause that
was not so long as it seemed, he heard the voice of Mr Mallory again.
‘You did not open my letter?’ said the Squire, in the tone of one who
does not attempt to seem credulous. ‘Perhaps you will be kind enough to
answer a few more questions. Was this letter given to you at the house
of Mr Lee?’
‘Yes, sir, it was.’ There had been a pause before Nat could speak.
‘And it had been opened then?’
‘Not as I know on, sir.’
‘You brought it to me?’
‘Yes, sir--’ but with hesitation.
‘Was it opened in your presence?’
‘No, sir, it was not.’
‘It was not opened,’ said Mr Mallory, who spoke much faster now; ‘the
seal was not taken off, and was not again replaced, replaced with a
much larger drop of sealing-wax, and pressed with the seal that you
take about with you?’ His tone and his manner were so terrible that Nat
lost his self-command, and broke out into tears.
‘We will have no whimpering,’ said the Squire, sternly. ‘Come, sir,
control yourself, and answer one more question--Did you seal this
envelope with your own hands, or did you not?’
‘I did not, sir,’ cried Nat, in a voice weak with crying, and in a
tumult of agitation that cannot be described, uncertain whether he
should not fling himself before his master, and, revealing to him all
that had happened, implore mercy at his feet. But the tempest of rage
that broke at once upon him swept away all his strength like a thread
before a storm. The Squire did not often lose his self-command, but on
this occasion his self-command was gone.
‘You liar!’ he cried, ‘you ungrateful vagabond! Look at this!’ and he
flung on the table the letter which he had held. ‘Will you dare to deny
that it has been sealed with your seal, the seal which you dropped, and
left in my room to-day? Oh, the seal is a plain one--you counted
upon that--but the size is the same, the crack in the corner
corresponds--you were very clever, no doubt, you imagined yourself to
be clever, but you were not quite so clever as you supposed yourself to
be! Come, sir, make your statement. We will have no more lies from you.
Did you seal this letter again with your seal, or did you not?’
A moment of doom!--but if Nat had possessed the courage either to deny
boldly or to confess the truth, he might even then have produced some
reaction in his favour, or have made it at any rate more difficult for
him to be condemned. He could not--at that moment there swept over him
like a tempest the remembrance that Tina had given back his seal
to him, and the sense of her perfidy, the conviction of her guilt,
rushed on him like a flood he had no power to stand against. He could
only declare with violent, broken words that he had not taken the
money, he had not!--the protestations appearing to be that final
vehemence which serves as the last outbreak of lying and despair. With
a movement of frenzy the Squire put out his hand; but, recollecting
himself, he drew it back again, drawing in his lips at the same time
with an expression of disgust. And then, pushing away his desk with a
motion of disdain, as if even that action gave him some relief, he rose
from his seat and paced about the room. The eyes of his servants
followed him, although they did not speak; no doubt they were expecting
the order that had not been given yet.
The clock ticked, the wax candles burned, there was no cessation of the
footsteps of the Squire. It seemed to the miserable culprit, who stood
with hanging head, whilst the sound of each footstep trod upon his
nerves, that the summons of a policeman would be more than he could
bear, that he must make some desperate effort to save himself from
doom. And still the footsteps paced up and down the room, and no voice
broke the silence to pronounce the words of condemnation.
We ascribe merciful actions to the merciful, and Mr Arundel-Mallory was
not a man of mercy; the kindness and even consideration that were
habitual to him proceeded rather from indifference and courtesy than
from lack of relentlessness. And yet it must be recorded that in these
instants, whilst he walked, the Squire found himself more oppressed
than he would have thought to be; this lad, his favourite, must have
been closer to his heart than he had imagined--this relic of the past,
and of the son whom he had lost. He did not like to be sensible of the
triumph of his butler, it seemed as if that exultation were a
reflection on himself; his mind wandered also to a remembrance of the
wretched boy’s poor mother, who was so much respected, and who kept her
home so neat! And then he thought how in that last day of the fever, in
the last words that could be distinguished from his lips, his little
boy, in the wandering of his delirium, had chattered of the boy who
came to play with him. It seemed, indeed, as if it were weakness not to
punish, especially when the miserable wretch deserved punishment so
much! But then it might be possible to inflict pain and shame enough,
without that punishment of a prison, that is held to be the last
disgrace. And with this thought, with a firm and steady motion, the
Squire came back to his chair, and sat down there again. He felt that
he must resign himself to the loss of a sum of money, but he had never
been a man who valued money much.
‘Listen! _You!_’ he said, with a movement of his hand to enforce
attention. ‘And do not attempt to say a single word! I am entirely
satisfied that it was you who stole my money. No doubt it is spent now.
I will not ask for it. I ought to send you to prison. It is my duty to
do so. But I cannot forget that--that Willy cared for you.’ His voice
trembled strangely, but he recovered himself; and went on in a tone
that did not tremble again.
‘Do you know what I will do to you? You shall be soundly thrashed in my
presence, and then turned out of my house with your shame and disgrace.
I will not hide the story from the village or your mother--from this
time you must find employment where you can. Get one of my whips.
Stripes that he will not forget will be the best medicine that you can
give to him.’
‘If they dare to touch me,’ cried Nat, in an overwhelming frenzy, as he
felt his arms grasped by the footman who remained, ‘I will never go
back to my home; I will drown myself to-night.’ The words sounded in
his ears with the ring of desperation, but he could see only a slight
smile on the thin lips of the Squire.
‘Ah! drown yourself?’ Mr Mallory murmured languidly, ‘I do not think
that a liar and a thief has spirit left for that.’ And then, as he saw
that the footman had returned, he gave a sign to the butler to begin.
It was over. The butler, who was a powerful man, had fulfilled his task
with the most complete good-will, but it must be owned that Nat had
not opposed to him the smallest resistance of movement or of sound. He
stood now, still quivering with the pain of his punishment, and turned
to the Squire such a pale face and such burning eyes that, although he
was aware of the absurdity of the sensation, the Squire could not
refrain from a thrill of uneasiness. Checking it, he raised his head,
with a languid shrug of his shoulders, and told his servants to turn
him out, and to close the house. The burning eyes of the boy rested
still upon his face to the very last instant as he was dragged away. He
was dragged from the room, and forced roughly through the passages, and
thrust through the side-door, and out into the night. He could hear the
sound of the bolts that were closed behind him: he was left to be in
the darkness and alone.