‘I can't think whatever's come over Nathan; he's that queer there's no
such thing as making of him out.’ This remark was addressed by Mark
Day, the tenor bell-ringer, to Obadiah Lang, who rang the third bell, a
few days after the events narrated in the previous chapter.
‘Ay,’ responded Obadiah. ‘There's the practisin' for Christmas-eve, the
practisin' for the carols and for the hymns a' Christmas-day; he don't
seem to care about them at all, and when I says to him: “How about the
evergreens for the church?” he stared hard, and said: “I'll see;” and
walked off.’
‘That ain't all neither,’ said Mark Day. ‘He's wonderful curious about
his house. He don't ask nobody in, but stands agen the door, with it
in his hand, and seems afraid all the time you are talking to him. My
opinion is, trouble's turned his brain. If he don't alter, I shall
speak to the parson.’
‘Don't do nothing you're sorry for afterwards,’ replied Obadiah.
‘Y' see Nathan ain't like one of us; he mostly have his reasons for
everythink, which ain't the case with everybody nowadays: it's all talk
and no do with the many.’
At this moment some one made his way to the churchyard, and to that
some one, the men touched their hats respectfully. It was Oliver
Peregrine. He brushed past quickly; but had the men been keen
observers, they might have noticed that his face was pale and his air
abstracted. He was going for a long and solitary walk, his custom
when any matter disturbed him, or as Gertrude Peregrine said, ‘when
he had a fit of the blues.’ He was not favoured by that young lady,
who secretly wondered how Patricia could fancy him. To her sister,
Gertrude said nothing of her choice, for Patricia was reserved and
distant even to her nearest of kin. Few could imagine how deeply she
loved this silent studious man. He himself was far from guessing the
depth of her affection, his own being centred not on Patricia but on
her inheritance, which would be his by marriage. All his life he had
coveted a position with wealth to support it; had determined to make it
his; had planned and worked for it; when, just as he was on the point
of attaining his ends, Death stepped in, and for the time frustrated
his hopes. Again the time drew near, and again Death intervened; while
impatient of the delay, the arrival of Colonel Lindsay, whom he well
remembered, proved a further source of annoyance.
Oliver and the Colonel had been secret antagonists in days gone by;
for the latter, a brave, honest, God-fearing soldier, disliked the
character of the younger man, whom he mistrusted; and from his long
and close intimacy with Squire Peregrine, felt at liberty to search
into matters of which he had heard, but seen nothing. After some years
spent in India, he had returned, to find changes at Linden Hall which
grieved and even displeased him. He felt more than ever disposed to
mistrust Oliver, but like a skilful tactician, knew that his plans must
be laid with the utmost secrecy; his enemies being the obstinate and
unforgiving disposition of his old friend, the craftiness of Oliver,
and his ignorance of the whereabouts of the outlawed son, to whom he
had acted as god-father, and for whom he entertained a true affection.
He had heard the story as related by Dobson, whose fidelity was
unimpeachable; but found that even that faithful dependent was obliged
to acknowledge that the case was as clear as the day, and that Mr
Bertram would never be forgiven by his father.
‘Never, sir,’ concluded Dobson; ‘not if he was dying.’
‘And how about the girl's brother, Dobson? You mentioned her
brother. Is he still alive? And does he manifest a vindictive spirit
towards--towards my god-son?’
‘Not he, sir. Nathan Boltz has forgiven him years ago. Poor Ruth
forgave him long before she died; but my master will never forgive him.
My mistress died with his name upon her lips; I believe waiting for his
return had killed her. It is a sad history, sir.’
Colonel Lindsay had made up his mind he would hear the story from
the lips of Nathan himself, and at once. Therefore, on the evening
of the day when Mark Day and Obadiah Lang had conversed respecting
Nathan, there came a gentle tap on the cottage door, which the owner
cautiously opened. In a few words the Colonel made it known that he
desired to speak to him; and with some hesitation Nathan bid him
enter. The Colonel had excused himself after dinner from returning
to the drawing-room, and had wrapped a large cloak over him by way
of disguise; this and his fur cap and muffler prevented Nathan from
discovering the rank of his visitor until they were seated in the neat
and pleasant room in which he usually lived. The cottage staircase led
from the kitchen to the floor above; but the door which opened upon the
kitchen was shut.
Nathan waited for Colonel Lindsay to speak; he knew that he was a
visitor at the Hall, and yet he shewed little anxiety concerning what
he might have to say to him. But when the Colonel, with soldierly
authority, made known who he was, and that he came for the purpose of
hearing the sad story of his sister's life, in order to forward the
ends of justice; then Nathan's hands trembled, his lip quivered, and in
a low voice he begged to be excused.
‘No,’ replied Colonel Lindsay with decision and yet kindness in his
tone; ‘you must tell me the whole of the particulars, either here or in
a court of justice; for I am determined to search them out, for reasons
which I shall hereafter explain.’
Nathan gazed at his visitor inquiringly, then gathering his resolution
together, he said: ‘If your object, Colonel Lindsay, be to bring the
offender to justice, I must utterly decline either in this place or any
other to open my lips upon the subject. I will never betray him. I mean
that I will give no evidence, not even if I am punished for withholding
it.’ He spoke under considerable excitement, but still with caution in
his manner.
This was not lost upon the Colonel, who answered: ‘Would you shield
your sister's betrayer, the man who beguiled her, and then left her to
sustain herself as best she might?’
‘He did not do that,’ replied Nathan; ‘she received an allowance as
long as she lived. But I promised her on her dying bed never to reveal
anything concerning her; and can I, ought I to break that promise?’
‘Yes!’ answered the Colonel decidedly. ‘Nathan Boltz, you may trust me
not to make use of my knowledge against the author of all this sorrow,
for the sake of my old friend, for the sake of his son. Can you not
trust me?’
‘Yes, sir, I will trust you; but you will not’---- He paused.
‘I will do nothing without your consent,’ said Colonel Lindsay. ‘And
now, let me hear it, for time passes. Please, begin at the beginning.’
‘My father,’ began Nathan, ‘was a Dutch sailor. My mother died when
Ruth was thirteen, and I two years older. After her death--which
happened at a time when my father had returned from a voyage--he did
not go to sea any more, but became a labourer under Squire Peregrine,
and kept a house for me and Ruth. The Squire was very kind to my father
and his orphans; and after a time Ruth learned the dressmaking, and
I was apprenticed to the head gardener at the Hall. My sister was a
beautiful girl, the belle of the village, and as modest as she was
pretty. We were very happy, until the Squire's son came home from
college, and began to notice Ruth in a manner which led my father to
warn her to beware. She smiled in her innocence, and told him he was
mistaken; and as we saw little or nothing of Mr Bertram, the feeling
died out. Thus matters remained for more than a year. But when I was
twenty and Ruth eighteen, the blow fell with crushing effect upon us
all. We rose one morning to find her gone, and to hear that Mr Bertram
had also disappeared, after forging his father's name for five hundred
pounds. It was useless to pursue the fugitives, even if we had had any
clue to their flight; and our desire was frustrated by orders from
Squire Peregrine to abandon all search. Day after day we waited and
hoped. But it was some months before poor Ruth made her way to us,
footsore and weary, and begging forgiveness for her sin. Then we knew
that he had not married her; and my father went nigh mad with anger. We
had been poor, but free from shame. He thanked God that my mother was
dead; and followed her soon after the death of Ruth's baby, which lived
only a few weeks. From time to time Mr Bertram sent her money, and when
I mentioned him, she always answered: “Have patience, Nathan. He will
marry me soon. Do not question me; only trust me.” I was very bitter
against him then, and would have killed him if we had met. I told Ruth
so; and she shuddered and prayed we might never meet until he had done
her justice. So the weary time went on; poor Ruth hopeful and patient;
so patient, that I used to wonder how she could live alone year after
year and not try to find him, not go mad with grief and disappointment.
But so it was. I could never understand her. We cannot all bear trouble
alike, sir’----
Nathan stopped suddenly, and turned his face away.
‘Go on,’ said Colonel Lindsay, rather anxiously, consulting his watch;
and Nathan obeyed.
‘My sister and I lived together in this manner for more than ten years.
She supported herself by dressmaking, and was fully employed, for her
history was known, and she was deeply pitied. As she received a regular
allowance from Mr Bertram, she must have known at such times where he
was; but never allowed me to see or hear anything of her proceedings.
Sometimes my violence frightened her. I know now how blind and wrong
I was. The Squire, who is a true gentleman, gave me the office of
bell-ringer and sexton, and made us many valuable presents; and it was
understood that no mention should ever be made by either of us of the
blight and sorrow of our life. But one day when my sister heard from
Mr Dobson that his young master's name was struck out of the will, and
that the young ladies were to be brought up in ignorance that they had
a brother, she came home in great distress; and one evening soon after,
when she had been with some work to a distant farm, she fainted on this
spot where I now sit, causing me great alarm. She would not reveal the
cause of her illness; and from that time, which was two years from the
date of Mr Bertram's flight, I said nothing to her of her sorrow and
its cause. Ten years after that her health gave way, and I saw that her
sickness was unto death. Inwardly, I vowed vengeance on the man who had
wrought this foul wrong; outwardly, I remained calmly waiting for the
end. Every luxury was sent her from the Hall; but Mrs Peregrine did not
visit her; no doubt she was forbidden, as her nature was both gentle
and forgiving. However, when the end was near at hand, Ruth implored me
to fetch her, and I did so. The urgency of my manner prevailed, and she
came immediately, alone and on foot. It was too late; Death had arrived
before her; and after a few kind words to me, she left. I found all
the money Ruth had received from Mr Bertram put by, and used a portion
of it for funeral expenses. From the day of her death I was a changed
man. She had besought me, charged me, as I would meet her hereafter,
to conquer even a desire for vengeance, and had commended Mr Bertram
to my care and protection, should he ever return; and so vehement
was her manner and so solemn her tone, that I made a vow to obey her
dying injunction; and have kept it. I have forgiven, as I hope to be
forgiven.’
Again Nathan paused, while a strange peacefulness gathered over his
face.
‘Have you finished?’ inquired his visitor, much moved.
‘Not quite. Soon after the date of Ruth's death, all remittances
ceased; and I concluded that he who had sent them was dead. This was
one circumstance worth notice. The other, that shortly before her death
Mrs Peregrine sent for me, and charged me that should her son return, I
would neither do nor say anything to widen the breach between him and
his father. For “Nathan,” she said, “I feel convinced that some day he
_will_ return. Therefore, for the sake of poor Ruth, who is gone, and
for my sake, who will soon follow her, promise me that you will do what
you can to bring them together; promise me, Nathan! I have always been
so grieved that I was too late to hear what your sister had to say.
Poor girl, she had a claim on us, although the world would have smiled
at the idea. It is just possible that she might have been married to my
son. What do you think?”
‘I told her I thought not; but added that my sister had been very
secret in all that she had said and done.
‘“'Tis a great relief to speak of my poor boy,” said Mrs Peregrine, who
seemed to forget all difference in rank; “and this will be the last
time, Nathan, that we may meet on earth. Bear my words in mind. My end
is peace, but one cannot have peace without forgiveness.”
‘I left her almost awe-stricken; it was so wonderful to have had this
lesson twice repeated. Neither had said a word of the wrong done to
them; it seemed to have faded out before the joy and peace which filled
their hearts, and which now fills mine.’
Nathan paused, and again the bright look stole into his face.
‘Well?’ said Colonel Lindsay.
‘That is all, sir,’ answered Nathan, evidently relieved that his
visitor rose to go.
‘Nothing more?’ pursued the Colonel, as he buttoned his cloak. He
looked straight at Nathan, whose eyes fell before the soldier's
searching glance.
‘No,’ he hesitated--‘nothing.’
There was silence. Suddenly a voice from a room above called ‘Nathan!’
twice.
‘Whose voice is that?’ exclaimed Colonel Lindsay. ‘I thought you lived
alone?’
‘I do; but this is a friend who is ill, and is staying with me for a
time. Excuse me, sir, but I am wanted.’
Again the call for Nathan.
‘Go to your friend,’ said the Colonel; ‘I will not detain you. After
you have attended to his wants, come back to me.’
Very unwillingly Nathan opened the staircase door; but no sooner had he
turned to go upstairs than he found his visitor behind him.
‘Go on,’ he said, as he paused. ‘I can read you like a book.’ Another
moment, and Colonel Lindsay had clasped the hands of Bertram Peregrine,
and Nathan had left the two alone.
Alone with Bertram, the Colonel heard his story, sympathised in his
trials, related all that had been told him by the Squire, and promised
to act as mediator between father and son; for he entertained no doubts
as to the truth of the statement, having always believed his god-son
sinned against rather than sinning. At the same time he congratulated
himself on his true perception of character.
When Colonel Lindsay returned to the Hall he was in a fever of
anxiety, distress, and hope; what steps to take he could not tell, but
determined to have but one confidant, Nathan Boltz.