CHAPTER XIX
NAT AND THE SQUIRE
THE village news, spreading fast, as has been said, was not long in reaching the mansion of the Squire, the grey house that was situated upon the hill, with trees around it and the church to the left of it. It came to this great house of the village with the milk, which was brought in the early morning by a little village boy, was discussed over breakfast in the servants’ hall, and was introduced into the study of the master with the newspaper. The Squire was interested, and even to a certain extent affected, although the details of village life did not often concern him much, for he was a recluse, with literary tastes, who preferred to seclude himself from the outside world. His servants were not only interested but also much excited, stirred to pity and even in some degree to triumph, for they had been jealous of their master’s handsome favourite, whose sister had become so unhappily distinguished now. The housekeeper declared that there must be something wrong with the family, and that for her part ‘she had never no opinion of the lad.’
Still human pity is produced by impulses that are happily often independent of our opinions, and when Nat appeared at eleven o’clock as usual, pale, with swollen eyelids, trying hard to hold up his head, he found himself received with a general compassion, which would not even disturb him by too many questions on the event. The housekeeper, indeed, took him apart into her room to ask if he had heard of his sister, and to express pity for his mother, but no one would have imagined from her manner how unfavourably she had spoken of him a little while before. Mrs Cranby was an old institution in the Squire’s household, a handsome old woman, with a manner of simple dignity, with a little red shawl on the shoulders of her gown, and with lilac ribbons in a most ample cap. It might have been well for the boy if he had accepted this opportunity of shewing gratitude for her kindness and of making friends with her, but he was sick and sore with shame and pride that morning, and only longed to be allowed to get to his work. He replied to her sympathy with a few, almost sulky words, and then went at once to the library of the Squire. For the last fortnight he had been accustomed to enter that room between eleven and twelve every morning; and on this occasion he found his master there, as usual, and alone.
Long afterwards, when many things had become clear, Nat learned to understand that the morning which succeeded his sister’s flight was a turning-point also for himself; but at the time his mind was entirely occupied with her, and could not consider other possibilities. There were such possibilities in greater measure than he knew; for on one side he had bound himself by a promise which was ill-considered, if not treacherous; and on the other the pity which had been awakened in his master was likely to lead to beneficial consequences. In order that we may understand his position more clearly it is necessary for us to know something of the Squire.
Mr Arundel-Mallory, more commonly known as Mr Mallory, and in Warton almost invariably mentioned as the Squire, was at that time a tall, though not upright gentleman of fifty, with hair that was perfectly white, though his eyebrows remained dark. His white hair perhaps made him appear older than he was, but he preserved the appearance of a remarkably handsome man, with great refinement of manner and of carriage, with quiet movements and a singularly gentle smile. His eyes had the abstraction of a dreamer, but his lips were mobile, and their expression could on occasions appear both hard and keen; they had subtle lines, and the lines of his face were subtle, with more wrinkles about them than might have been expected. In his youth Mr Mallory had been spoken of as wild, and had spent more money in Paris than could be accounted for; but after his marriage with a descendant of the French nobility he had come home to England to settle on his estate. Two heavy sorrows awaited him; his beautiful, young wife died in the year after their marriage; and that grief was succeeded by the loss of his son when he was thirteen years old. After this last trouble, Mr Mallory, who had long given up society, secluded himself with more determination than before; and devoted his time to literature, and the collection of old pictures, rarely rousing himself otherwise except to do some kindness to any one who could claim a connection with his wife or son. He was a man who was regarded with interest, but yet who was not loved; who was imposed upon by many, and feared and hated by a few; a man too clear-sighted to be altogether gentle, but too abstracted and indifferent to be clear-sighted every day. The Squire was a gentle landlord, as all the parish knew; but his resentment, when roused, could not be appeased again.
This was the master before whom Nat stood on the morning which succeeded the night of his sister’s disappearance; and who, as he entered, turned on him an anxious glance, which revealed more sympathy than he might have been expected to show. It had long been a matter of remark in Warton and its neighbourhood that the Squire had an especial favour for Jenny Salter’s son.
‘Ah! so you have come,’ said Mr Arundel-Mallory, gently; ‘I am glad to see you, for I have some errands for you to-day. You look tired; sit down. Whilst I write out your commissions you will be able to rest.’
Nat sat down, soothed in spite of himself by a kindness more delicate in expression than that of the housekeeper had been. With some nervousness, for he had much natural diffidence, he drew out a carved chair from the table and sat down upon it, having placed his cap on the floor. Into this luxurious library, this room with its books and busts, and appliances for study, he had been admitted sometimes in earlier years that he might play with the Squire’s little son. No doubt to this circumstance he owed his present employment, but in spite of that it did not enter into the mind of the lad to suppose that this past intimacy gave him any particular claim upon the Squire. And possibly Mr Mallory appreciated this reticence, not often a quality of those who accepted help from him.
‘I have had you in the garden every day for the last fortnight,’ the Squire observed, whilst he wrote leisurely. ‘I hope you will be able to come even after the harvest has begun; you can apply for more wages at that time, if you like.’
‘My mother says I’ve enough, sir,’ muttered Nat, in reply to this suggestion; ‘she told me I wasn’t to ask you for no more.’ And as the Squire raised his eyes in some surprise, his glance fell on the swollen eyelids and pale cheeks of the boy.
‘Ah, yes .... I know .... your mother .... an honest woman ....’ he murmured over his writing, for he had bent his head again; and then, when he had finished and laid aside his pen, he added a few more words with a gentle utterance.
‘You are in trouble to-day?’
The kind words and the kind glance were more than could be borne, though Nat tried to hold up his head, as if he didn’t care. In vain! his face became red, and his eyes filled with tears.
‘Yes, sir, we are.’
‘Would you rather not be sent into the town? Is there anything else you wish to do? Tell me.’
‘I can’t do no good, sir; I’d as lieve be there as here.’
‘You do not wish then to be near your mother?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Have you had any news yet .... of your sister?’
‘No.’
The boy pronounced the syllables with his usual resolution, and with the reserve that also belonged to him; these qualities were more obvious than usual to the Squire. ‘A proud family—a proud family,’ he said within himself; ‘but at least it is not a family that begs for help.’ And with this thought there rose again in his heart the partiality he had long felt for the lad, and the clinging remembrance of the attachment of his little son for the little companion who had sometimes played with him. ‘I will make up my mind,’ he said to himself inwardly; ‘the boy is an honest lad, and I will do what I can for him.’
‘I wish you to go to the gardener,’ he said aloud, ‘and tell him that I shall require you all the day. By the time you have spoken to him, I shall have finished the letter which you must take to Mr Lee. I wish you to leave it, and to wait for an answer, and then to call for my other letters, and come straight back to me. You will have to wait in the town for the last delivery—there are some letters that I must have to-night.’
The boy left the room, and the Squire sat down and wrote. It was a long epistle, addressed to his old friend, Mr Lee.
‘.... No, I cannot give you advice with regard to your niece and nephew,’ (with these words he concluded after he had spoken of many things), ‘and so I will not ask for your help in a similar perplexity, which has been engaging my attention of late. The boy of whom I spoke to you seems to me worthy of assistance, and I cannot forget that Willy cared for him. For the next few weeks and months I intend to watch him narrowly, and if he proves himself deserving, I will provide for him.’
With these words—that is to say with an assurance of which he was unconscious although it concerned himself—with the loss of his sister weighing on his mind, and his promise to Tina haunting him once more, Nat found his way through the brilliant August sunlight, which flashed on the river, and shone on the golden corn; and with quick footsteps, although with a mind perturbed, left river and corn-fields, and reached the town at length. ‘If he proved himself deserving,’—it was his hour of probation. Who will dare to say of himself that he is strong enough for trial?